


The Life and Loves of Filius H. Flitwick

by PurpleFluffyCat



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Age Difference, Angst, Bigotry & Prejudice, Complicated Relationships, Fluff and Angst, Friends With Benefits, Gen, Goblins, Grief/Mourning, Love, M/M, Magic, Romance, Secret Relationship, Unrequited Love, Wizarding Politics, Wizarding World, happiness, inventive magic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-08
Updated: 2018-02-08
Packaged: 2019-03-15 06:36:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 10
Words: 40,375
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13607667
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PurpleFluffyCat/pseuds/PurpleFluffyCat
Summary: “'Filius’” she mused, regarding him again with those dark, unblinking eyes. “Son of both wizard and goblin. Inspiration to many. Friend to all.”This is his story.





	1. Polgog

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Lash_larue](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lash_larue/gifts).



> Written for my dearest lash_larue in the incomparable hoggywartyxmas fest. Themes include: happiness and grief; complicated relationships; making one's way in the world; and the politics of wizarding society.

**Polgog**

 

“Daddy?”

“Yes, son?”

“Why are we going to a big hall all day, just to hear someone read out a scroll?”

Marvin Flitwick laughed. “It’s what Great-Great-Uncle Horsegood wanted, it seems.” His father’s emphasis gave Filius the impression that it clearly wasn’t what _anyone else_ who was involved wanted, in the least.

Filius had never met Great-Great-Uncle Horsegood, but he had gathered that he had died recently, after living in America for years. He also knew that his own middle name was in honour of the man. And that was about it.

“He was always one for keeping others in suspense,” agreed Filius’ mother. She drew Filius close as the carriage skidded over a particularly bumpy section of road. “But when it’s all over, we can play a nice game when we get home. Alright, my dear?”

Filius nodded, and bit his lip, wondering what that might be. Having no brothers or sisters meant that his parents were the only people he had to play with, and they usually worked very hard. Games were precious things. “Could you charm the egg-cups again for me?!”

She grinned, and pressed a kiss into his hair. “I daresay I could.”

"'Scuse me, guvnor – I reckon this is the address." The driver brought the carriage to a halt. "Blimey, they must be expecting a bloody huge turnout to pick a building this size for the reading of a will!"

Marvin smiled wryly. "Thank you. And yes, I daresay the interest in my great-uncle's estate will be... extensive."

"Think of me when yer rich, then – eh?" The cabbie winked.

Chuckling in that embarrassed, particularly English, way, Marvin paid the man, and they all disembarked.

"Daddy, are we going to be rich?" Filius looked up, wide-eyed.

"No, son." Marvin ruffled his hair. "We're just here because Grandmother wanted the moral support. We didn't know Great-Great-Uncle Horsegood, now, did we? I last saw him when I was younger than you are!"

Filius wondered whether his father could ever have been younger than he was. It didn't seem possible. Because, after all, his father was _his father_ – so how could he have ever been just six years old?

In the meantime, Filius heard snatches of his parents' whispered conversation:

"'Moral support'? That's a highly diplomatic way of putting it, my dear. I believe her exact words were, 'I demand you be there for a respectable family showing. Think what people will say if all those business associates and vulgar hangers-on outnumber actual relations!'"

"Yes, well." He paused. "I think she's actually most worried that _they_ will turn up – family or no."

"Daddy, who are _they_?"

His parents turned and both laughed. 

"What sharp little ears you have, young man!" His Mother bent down to hold Filius' hand. "Come on."

The building sported great Doric columns either side of the main doors, up an imposing flight of stairs from the road. A uniformed man with a scroll stood at the entrance, ticking off names as people entered, and doffing his pointed hat, selectively.

“Marvin.” A commanding voice made them all turn. It was attached to Grandmother Leticia – resplendent in tightly-corseted dress-robes of greyish lavender, her hair set stiffly in its bouffant and crowned by an extravagant feathered hat.

“Good day, Mother.”

“Delphine.” Grandmother nodded, curtly.

“How nice it is to see you, Mother-in-Law.” Filius' mother did a passing-decent job of making it sound genuine.

“And young Filius.” She peered down at him, through her lorgnettes. In Filius' world, many people _towered_ over him, but she had a knack of _towering_ in a particularly deliberate manner. "How I wish I could say, ‘haven’t you grown?’…”

“Hello, Grandmother,” said Filius, dutifully.

“–But what he lacks in height, he makes up for in intellect,” jumped in Marvin, “don’t you son? Why, just yesterday, Filius memorised Albus Dumbledore’s ‘Twelve New Uses for Dragon’s Blood’ out of one of my periodicals.”

“Fascinating, I’m sure,” replied Grandmother Leticia, in a tone that suggested she thought it was anything but. –And then her eye was caught by a family of small people ascending the stairs, over Marvin's shoulder. Filius just glimpsed them as they disappeared into the building; he could make out little, apart from the fact that they seemed to have quite pointed ears. “Oh, how dare they come here? Filthy creatures! Really. To think that they might have some stake in… Oh, the audacity of them! But just like their kind.” She shuddered, and then stalked away, grandly announcing herself to the man with the scroll.

After several introductions, much queuing and a lot of shuffling, Filius and his parents took up a place near the very back of the hall. Filius was perched on the end of a row; the narrow wooden benches could barely accommodate all who had thronged within. They were surrounded by plenty of others wearing tweedy robes and politely bored expressions, some of whom Filius vaguely recognised from family gatherings; the lofty plumes of Grandmother Letitia’s best hat and the braying voices of scores of unknown men were much further forwards.

After what seemed an age of sitting quietly and being a good boy, a tufty-haired wizard ascended a platform at the front of the room. "Order, please. Here begins the reading of the last will and testament of Horsegood Aurelius Herbert Flitwick; born, 2nd January, 1795; deceased, 5th September, 1941. We commence with the individual bequeathing of three-thousand and twenty-one minor artefacts and mementoes of sentimental interest." A huge groan erupted from the hall. "Order! Now, point 1: 'I leave a mounted great Billywig that we caught together in Selangor to..."

The words washed over Filius as the man continued on, and on and on. The room was hot and dark. Occasionally, the audience harrumphed or tutted, but mostly, nothing happened at all.

From his seat on the end of the row, Filius could see a small side door that had been propped open, giving onto an inner courtyard of the hall complex. The chink of daylight was inviting; he could just about see some leaves moving in the breeze.

Filius tugged at his mother's sleeve and, very quietly, asked, "Mummy, may I go and play outside?"

She glanced at the open door into the courtyard – safe and enclosed – and then nodded her approval.

As quietly as he could, Filius slipped from his seat, along the aisle and out of the door – to find when he stepped into the courtyard, that he was not alone.

There was already another child there, rolling shiny coins in patterns between the cobblestones. She was pretty, but not like anyone Filius had seen before. Her fingers were extremely long, with pointed nails. Although she wore a pink dress and white sash, her long, pointed feet trod bare on ground and her hair clouded in dark curls around the wide dome of her head and big pointed ears, like a kind of doll.

“Hello, I’m Filius,” he said, walking out toward her. He extended his hand, just as his mother had taught him was polite when meeting people for the first time. He had been doing it all day.

The girl stood up from her game, and turned to regard him quizzically. She looked at his hand, but didn’t take it. Instead, she held out her own in mirror image, frowning a little at the sight of two different hands there, in mid-air.

Deciding that was good enough, Filius clasped her fingers into a dutiful handshake. The girl jumped, but didn’t run away. She just kept on looking at him, alert and alive to his every move.

“What’s your name?” Filius asked.

She didn’t blink. “My name is Polgog.”

“Polgog? That’s a funny name. Do you mind if I call you ‘Polly’?”

She shrugged and then all of a sudden she smiled at him, showing neat, pointy teeth. “I don’t mind.”

He liked her, Filius decided. Best of all, she was almost exactly his own height, so he could look into her big dark eyes without craning upwards.

“How old are you, Polly?” he asked.

She turned her head to one side. “About forty, I think. We don’t really count.”

“Oh, that must mean you’re a grown-up,” said Filius, feeling rather disappointed.

“No,” replied Polly, looking confused. “I haven’t started lessons, yet.”

“Oh.” Filius didn’t argue; he was happy to regard that as good news. “What were you playing just now?”

“Catch a Wizard in the Vault,” she replied. “Do you want to play with me?”

“Oh, yes please!” said Filius, thinking that a game would be so much more fun than sitting for hours again in that stuffy old hall. “But will you teach me? I don’t know that one.”

“No. I suppose you don’t,” said Polly, but Filius didn’t think to ask what she meant by it. She looked at him carefully, her dark eyes still never blinking, and then smiled again. “I will teach you.”

Polly showed Filius her shiny metal discs that glittered in the afternoon sunlight, and how to spin and catch them. He whooped in delight and she giggled as they skittered over the cobblestones, this way and that. She was lovely, Filius thought, and they were having such fun. He asked Polly about her family, learning that there many of them living together, near the bank in London. She seemed surprised that Filius lived in a house with only his mother and father.

They must have played for an hour, probably more; all of the grownups were still inside, listening to the man drone on and on from the front of the room. Filius began to think that maybe Polly could come for tea at his house, and then he could show her his toys. She would really like his charmed glockenspiel, he thought – and maybe Father would make cakes.

Suddenly, though, a great crowd poured out of the hall and Grandmother Letitia’s voice thundered across the courtyard. “Marvin! Pull those two apart. It’s bad enough having one throwback in the family! You wouldn’t want him breeding more."

Filius heard his mother gasp, and his Father picked him up from behind without a second of warning. Filius craned around to reach out to Polly, but people had flooded around from all sides, and she was gone.

“What…?” He clutched his father’s robes, on the verge of tears. It didn’t make any sense.

“Not now, son,” Marvin breathed, his voice low and taut. “You be a good boy for me, and don’t say anything more about it.”

Filius bit back his sobs; he was so confused about what had just happened. He didn't get to play with other children very much, and they hadn't been doing anything naughty; they hadn't wandered off to worry anyone, and hadn't made very much noise. They had only been playing with Polly's coins.

After a crushed interlude outside that was full of people pushing this way and that, Filius was deposited back in the hall – this time sitting between his parents on the narrow wooden bench. His mother held his hand, but just for once, it felt more like restraint than comfort. “There’s a good boy,” she said, in a voice that was thick with love and hurt. “My good boy…”

Filius concentrated on the patch of wood in front of him, still trying not to cry. "Mummy, what's a throwback?"

She swallowed hard and forced a smile. "It means you're very special, Darling. Because you remind some people of other members of Daddy's family – and that's nothing at all to be ashamed of."

Filius nodded and considered that. The man at the front of the room started to speak again, and the audience settled once more into mumbling boredom.

The speech seemed interminable. It continued like that for what could have been hours, until:

“-And thus I come to the final item of this reading,” said the wizard at the lectern. The hum of chatter immediately died. All of the adults held their breath. “The will states: ‘To young Filius Horsegood Flitwick I bequeath the remainder of my estate,” The man paused to accommodate the collective gasp from the crowd, “‘because only he evokes the memory of my darling wife – lost to me in an act of violence all those years ago, that still stains wizardkind to this day. May Filius be an envoy for peace in our divided world. May the best of all of us lie together in him. The full sum shall be kept in trust until Filius’ twenty-first birthday, if I should die before that day comes to pass.’ This concludes the reading of the last will and testament of Mr Horsegood Aurelius Herbert Flitwick, deceased. Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen.”

It then became very difficult indeed for Filius' parents to extract their little family from the hall. People were staring and pointing and blocking their way. Filius didn't really know what it all meant; he just wanted to go home.

Grandmother Leticia glared at them all, but especially at Filius. “Disgusting,” she muttered under her breath, and then wrapped her fur stole about her in an imperious sweep before slamming the door of her Thestral-drawn carriage.

Filius tried to make-out Polly in the crowds, but in the thrum and squash of witches and wizards towering above, he hadn’t a chance. As they clambered into a cab, he sent out a silent, hopeless message to the sky: _I won't forget you._


	2. Minerva

**Minerva**

> _My dear Miss McGonagall,_
> 
> _I saw you at the sorting ceremony yesterday. I was the other one who everybody called a hatstall, afterwards. Would you like to go for a walk in the garden this afternoon? I would like to meet you. I’ll be by the main staircase at 1 o’clock and I hope that you come._
> 
> _Yours sincerely,_
> 
> _Filius Flitwick_

  
He composed it carefully, just as his mother had trained him to write thank-you letters to Grandmother Letitia when she sent a sickle for his birthday, and asked his owl to deliver it to Gryffindor Tower.

Hogwarts was wonderful, Filius thought. In many ways, it was just as his parents had said, but in many ways it was different, too. Part of that, he supposed, was the fact that he had been sorted into a different house. Mama and Father had both been Hufflepuffs, but they had made it very clear that they would be proud of him whichever house the hat chose – and after that long, long conversation with it, Filius was pleased to have been sorted into Ravenclaw. Getting a puzzle to solve every time he needed to go into the Common Room was wonderful fun – and he did so love the view of the night sky from their tower, framed by the silver filigreed ceiling and the blue silk curtains that seemed to go on forever. He was sure he'd be happy, here.

*****

The following day, Filius waited anxiously by the newel post. He was a little early, but thought that better than being late.

At one o'clock precisely, he was joined by a tall girl with long, dark hair.

"You came!"

"Yes," she said, rather curtly. It seemed more a statement of fact than any declaration of warmth, but Filius interpreted her decision to be there as all the encouragement he needed.

"Good afternoon. My name is Filius Flitwick. I'm pleased to meet you, Miss McGonagall."

She looked at him a little strangely, but then shook Filius' outstretched hand. "Call me Minerva." Her accent was strong and clipped. _Maybe it makes her sound harsher than she means to,_ Filius thought.

At his suggestion, they headed out into the grounds. The air was blustery and bright; the last fingers of summer had not yet yielded their touch upon the gardens.

"The hat spent ages talking to me about whether I should go to Gryffindor or Ravenclaw," started Minerva, and frowned.

"Ah! So we're the same, but opposite – if you catch my drift!" She looked at him quizzically. "I mean, that it spent ages talking to _me_ about whether to choose Gryffindor or Ravenclaw, too – but in the end, chose Ravenclaw." She nodded, her interest piqued. "What do you think made the final difference, for you?"

Minerva seemed to consider for a moment. "I'm not quite sure. But it did ask me some funny questions."

"Oh? What were they?"

"Well, for example, it told me to imagine that my house was on fire, and asked me what I'd do first."

"And what did you say?" Filius was really curious, now.

"I said that I'd rescue anyone and everything inside that I cared about," replied Minerva, as if the right answer was really obvious.

Filius nodded. "That's a very fair answer..."

Minerva looked suspicious. "...But?"

"Oh, no 'buts'; not at all! It's just not what I said when the hat asked me the same thing."

"Which was...?" She seemed a bit anxious, now.

"I said I'd conjure a massive amount of water to put the fire out."

Minerva shrugged and spread her hands in appeasement. "I guess that's a pretty fair answer, too."

They shared a meaningful look, and then both smiled.

"So, what do you think of Hogwarts so far?" Minerva recommenced the air of someone rather confident.

"I think it's great!" replied Filius. "I love our Common Room, and Professor Merrythought seems really nice. It's all so big, though! Mama and Father both said that Hogwarts was huge, but it's even bigger than I imagined. 

"It's so exciting to actually be able to come, though – everyone in my family has been here over the years, and I was starting to feel a bit left out, waiting my turn."

"Oh, so you're a pure-blood?" Minerva sounded a little disappointed.

Filius wasn't quite sure how to answer that. "I suppose so. But… well, not really, because I've got goblin blood, too."

She boggled. "What? Really?"

Filius nodded.

Minerva seemed to consider. "Well, you seem nice." She paused. "I promise I won't tell anybody." Filius was just about to open his mouth to say that he didn't mind, and it wasn't a big secret, but then she added, "I really suggest that you don't tell anyone else, either."

A bit of an awkward silence settled as Filius took that in. Aside from being told by his parents that he had inherited some goblin blood, and – in bright, brittle tones – _there was absolutely nothing wrong with that,_ , he didn't really have any experience of the creatures. The main steer had simply been that he must remember to cut his fingernails and toenails every day. They had never socialised with the goblin side of the family, for example, and had carried on, decade-to-decade, as if that branch didn't even exist. Filius knew no more or less about goblins than any other eleven-year-old wizard, therefore – and there was something in Minerva's tone that made him vow to keep it that way. He was a _wizard_ , Filius decided, and that was all.

Bridging the gap with some skill, Filius launched a new subject about what they might be learning at school this year, and whether Minerva had read all of the textbooks, yet. She seemed very happy to talk about that, and also a bit relieved to find someone else who had already read everything from cover to cover.

They talked for the best part of an hour, doing lazy circuits of Hogwarts' lawns. Filius thought that Minerva was clever and pretty, and at the end, she bent down and he kissed her on the cheek.

*****

Filius' mother had warned him that he would probably be the smallest in the year, and that some of the other children might not be kind about it. Unfortunately, that proved to be true. Just one week into the term, a group of Slytherin third-years decided to push Filius into a dark corner on the fourth floor and rip his books from his hands, guffawing while throwing them backwards and forwards over his head, and calling him a range unimaginative names. Fortunately, however, the dragon-pox hex that Filius had learned from a rather colourful book in the library that very morning was surprisingly effective. The culprits were in the hospital wing for a week. They never bothered him again.

Indeed, Filius quickly developed something of a reputation as a large force in a small package. He never sought trouble – it wouldn't be right, and besides, he thought that sort of thing rather boring – but had on a number of occasions rushed to help some poor child he saw being bullied, with a well-placed deflection or hex at the perpetrators. Strangely, these actions never seemed to land him in trouble with his Head of House – even though magic was banned in the corridors. Professor Merrythought just nodded and smiled at him when they met – and then patiently answered all of the questions Filius had accumulated during that day about the finer points of Charms and defensive magic. He really loved being in Ravenclaw House.

Of all his teachers, though, Filius liked Professor Dumbledore the very best. He felt slightly disloyal about that – and didn't mean a moment’s disrespect to Professor Merrythought by it – but there was something about Professor Dumbledore that inspired and uplifted him, and made him want to reach for the stars. 

Filius was top of his class at Transfiguration, but it didn't feel like his most natural subject. He had to work hard at it, and follow the steps they had been taught, carefully – not like Charms, where the right spell just seemed to... come. So, it wasn't particularly the subject matter that made Filius feel that way, more something about the man himself. 

Professor Dumbledore told the class that there were no limits on what they could be in the future, as long as they tried hard and believed in themselves. He entertained them with preposterous Transfigurations: a piece of chalk became a pig riding a unicycle; an inkwell became a little squid in a bowl of water who created ink in every colour of the rainbow. That time when Filius rescued a little girl's pet owl from the wands of teasing Gryffindors, only to hear, "thirty points to Ravenclaw" whispered behind his left shoulder by a tower of auburn and velvet, surely helped.

*****

“Guess what?” Minerva bounded toward him, meeting after lunch in their usual spot.

“I don’t know. But you certainly look excited!” replied Filius.

“I’ve made it onto the team!”

“Oh, well done! Congratulations, Minerva.” He was genuinely pleased for her.

“Nancy Longhorn said that I was the most promising new Chaser they’ve had in years! Training starts tomorrow, after lessons. You will come and watch the first match, won’t you? It’s Gryffindor versus Slytherin.” She was actually bouncing up and down on her toes in delight.

“I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

*****

As first year turned into second and third, Filius found practically everything they studied to be interesting. He looked forward to lessons, and spent long hours in the library – not because it took him long to complete the necessary homework, but because there was always one more fascinating book that he could find before he went to bed.

Arithmancy was rather tricky, but Filius adored the challenge. He was grateful that his Mother had taught him plenty of basic Mathematics before he started at Hogwarts, because it was a great advantage to draw upon that, now. The lines of regression and number patterns appeared in colours before his eyes when he was presented with a problem, and it was just a question of discerning which path to trace through the forest of figures. Filius had heard that Professor Dippet sometimes held Advanced Arithmancy classes for sixth and seventh years; he was already planning to apply for them, and was really hoping that there would be sufficient demand among his faltering cohort.

Study of Ancient Runes was another subject to which Filius took like a Selkie to water. Unlike most of his cohort, he really enjoyed History of Magic; Professor Binns had been the Head of Ravenclaw in the early 1800s, and he had lots of marvellous things to say, if one was just prepared to _listen_ to him, Filius thought. Thus primed with curiosity about the Ancients, Filius threw himself into deciphering their language and magic with gusto. He was astounded by how much of the magic now taken for granted at Hogwarts actually originated from distant countries and peoples. The Alohomora charm, for instance, was first developed by the Ancient Egyptians, and spread to the Pacific Islands of Hawaii and Tonga by ship, where it was developed and refined. We know this, Filius learned, from contemporary accounts inscribed on stone and papyrus – but funding in recent years for magicoarchaeology had not been all that it might, and much useful information to complete the picture probably lay in the remains of ancient temples, in inscriptions that were yet to be deciphered, and in the vernacular traditions of the witches and wizards who live in those regions. Filius decided that he would love to go there, someday; he could surely discover all manner of new things, and write a book of his own. When he mentioned this to young Professor Babbling, she smiled, but reminded him, “One step at a time, eh, young Filius? And besides, travel can be _very dangerous_." It sounded a bit like his mother’s views on the subject.

Notwithstanding the joys of his new subjects, Charms always remained Filius’ first and forever favourite. All of magic was a Charm, when it really came down to it, he thought. Even Potions, which didn’t much need his beloved wand, used the natural magical energy within each witch or wizard – and in stirring clockwise or anticlockwise a regimented number of times, one was effectively casting a charm upon the set of ingredients within.

That natural magical energy seemed to sing and surge in Filius’ blood. He had learned from his housemates that his own magical showing as a baby had been unusually early. His parents had one day found him making the mobile above his cot go around when it stilled, and very soon afterwards, his little stuffed animal unicorns and hippogriffs began to fly by themselves when Filius was left alone. Charms were a delightful outlet for that reservoir of magic he felt so keenly – the more whimsical, the better. Filius completed the standard curriculum in a fraction of the time in which it was usually taught, so Professor Devolitant usually allowed Filius to spend the rest of class time improvising and adapting the Charms they had been learning. Sometimes, he merged two or three together, to create a Compound Charm. Getting the incantation right was the tricky part of that: it seemed pure trial and error as to whether ‘Wingardium Engorgio’ would make something float then expand, or expand then float. Professor Devolitant didn’t seem to be able to help on that point, claiming it couldn’t be predicted – but Filius felt sure there must be some underlying magical rule to the matter, if only he could find it. Defence was merely a subset of Charms with a specific purpose, in Filius’ view – so, naturally, he was good at that, too.

In fact, there was very little indeed that Filius _wasn’t_ good at. Outside of lessons, his magical rhythm translated quite easily into a musical rhythm, and he was welcomed graciously into the soprano section of the school choir after a good audition with Professor Beery. Many of the witches commented on the clear, pure tone of his singing, and his uncanny ability to always be on the right note at the right time. 

Flying though, was not his favourite. Filius was competent on a broomstick, but didn’t much enjoy it – the harsh tackling on the Quidditch pitch rather unnerved him, given how easily he could be knocked off course. So, after the compulsory sessions of Quidditch were over, Filius decided that discretion was very much the better part of valour on that front, and cheered the Ravenclaw team – or failing that, the Gryffindor team – enthusiastically from the stands. Among other things, he thought that being injured in the hospital wing for weeks would be just a waste of time when he could be learning.

–And learning was indeed something that Filius did extremely efficiently. As he studied, he found that he never forgot anything. He wasn't _trying_ to forget things, of course – that would be most inconvenient – but he simply didn't understand when his classmates were bewailing their own inabilities to recall what the teacher had said, or what they had read in a book just last week. As far as Filius was concerned, when something was in, it was _in_. He could no more erase his memory of what he had learned than he could decide not to have hands or feet. Facts didn’t become hazy or rusty in his mind. Even conversations – casual things – remained clear and catalogued, such that should be ever need to recall exactly what someone said, he could, even a year or more later.

Over time, Filius learned that what came naturally to him in this regard was apparently extremely unusual. Minerva was very clever, but even she seemed to need to read things more than once to remember them, and to need a prompt now and then about something that had happened in the past. 

He asked Professor Merrythought about it once – vaguely wondering whether there might actually be something… not _wrong_ with him, exactly, but perhaps a bit out-of-kilter. He began to worry whether it was normal not to be _able_ to forget things, even if he wanted to. She didn’t seem to quite catch his drift, though, replying only that he was surely one of Rowena Ravenclaw’s truest disciples, and the witch herself would have been proud of him. 

In a quiet moment at the end of a Ravenclaw-Hufflepuff Transfiguration lesson, Filius tried again, but this time with Professor Dumbledore. The reaction was rather different, but not much clearer. Professor Dumbledore narrowed his eyes a little, and nodded sagely, making Filius feel a little like a specimen in a Care of Magical Creatures class. Then, however, he smiled warmly and all such feelings of scrutiny were swept away. “I daresay it’s a blessing of birth,” was the verdict, “but please do excuse me, I have another class to teach now, on the seventh floor.”

*****

"I'm sure it still exists, you know."

Minerva sighed and kicked at a pile of autumn leaves. "Oh, not that old thing, again."

"Yes!" he said, indignantly, "Very _much_ that old thing.” Minerva changed their path to clockwise around the lake. Distractedly, Filius followed. "I just don't believe that a relic of that much power and importance could simply _disappear_. The enchantments contained in it must be something quite extraordinary. I was thinking: it must be some form of Ritalus charm, but triangulated on all sides with an Encapsulatium... I say! Do you think it would be possible to use a Gemino charm on brainwaves?"

"I think that would probably make you go mad," replied Minerva, without missing a beat.

"–Yes, you're probably right. …Maybe I should just ask her again."

"I don't think the Grey Lady is susceptible to your charms, Filius."

"Oooow." Filius sulked. Minerva stopped to pick up a round stone from the lake shore, giving him a moment to bounce back. As always, it didn’t take long. "She did say something rather nice about me, though.” Filius blushed a little.

"Oh? And what was that?" asked Minerva, indulging him.

"She said that I was a model student, just like Albus Dumbledore was."

Minerva rolled her eyes. "Oh, honestly – you and _Dumbledore!_ "

"Whaaat?" asked Filius, mock-offended.

Minerva rolled her eyes and skimmed the stone across the water. It gave three satisfying skips before sinking with a resounding ‘plop’. "Anyway, shouldn't you be focussing on studying? O.W.L.s are in just two weeks, you know. As Prefects, we should be setting a good example."

"I guess so." Filius shrugged. He didn't want to say so to Minerva, but he was pretty sure he'd already learnt everything that there could possibly be on the O.W.L. syllabi, even in a really tricky year. It was all there, stacked neatly in his brain, just as the day he had first read each and every fact. 

_That diadem, though..._ "Maybe I _could_ try asking her again," he started. Minerva hit him over the head with one of her books – but not that hard. "Alright, alright!" He knew not to push his luck with a feisty Scottish girl.

*****

To Filius’ delight, Advanced Arithmancy _was_ available as a N.E.W.T. subject – although Filius found himself in a class of one, studying it. Professor Dippet, more and more distracted these days, seemed to come alive when he was recounting his early studies in Mesopotamia; the numerological theories of the Ancient Persians were strikingly accurate, even though they had still not been adopted into mainstream practice. Filius lapped it all up; his extended essays and numero-grammatical workings brought a sparkle back to the old man’s eyes.

In Charms, though, Filius had now been pretty much left to his own devices. Professor Devolitant had taken him aside at the beginning of sixth year and said, “Filius, I need to be honest. I’ve taught you all about this subject that I have. You could have scored an ‘O’ at N.E.W.T. level from about the end of fourth year, and… well. What would you _like_ to do in your classes for the next two years?” 

Filius thought long and hard about that, but couldn’t settle upon just one thing. Some of the time, he helped Professor Devolitant to teach the class, tutoring his peers on some particularly tricky aspect of wandwork or incantation. It felt quite natural, given the fact that he had been helping Ravenclaws with their homework for years. Filius found that he rather enjoyed teaching; he got a little spark of satisfaction each time one of his explanations helped to produce a better outcome. 

Sometimes, he worked on his own experiments – but over time, that proved rather frustrating, with erratic and unreproducible results. Filius was perfectly sure that he used the same casting with each iteration of the charm he was trying to develop: an amplification of the natural music of the spheres, such that wizards may behold it. Noises, however, ranged from low thrumming to ear-splitting squeaking, via occasional snatches of music so beautiful it almost moved him to tears.

The reason for this lack of success came to light in one of Filius’ many late-night reading sessions in the library; he shouted “Aha!” to the empty tables and full shelves. Filius learned that the most fundamental experimental magic was highly sensitive to its surroundings; spells could imbibe and suffer interference from ambient magic of all kinds. Hogwarts, as most other busy magical centres, was positively bubbling with background magic from both the stones and the inhabitants; development of sensitive basal charms hadn’t a chance. No, Filius learned, the only way to make good progress on such work was to use one of the world’s very few specialist Magic-Neutral Laboratories, where intricate cancelling charms were woven into the very fabric of a building to abrogate any such interference.

And so it was, that when Professor Merrythought called each student to her office to discuss their post-Hogwarts plans, Filius was crystal clear about his: to apply as a Pupil to L'Institut de la Magie Expérimentale in Paris, the nearest site of one such coveted laboratory.

Professor Merrythought looked at Filius a little strangely, at that. “The people there are… rather different,” she said.

“Ok,” he smiled, thinking that a little difference never hurt proceedings. Indeed, in Filius’ view, most classes would be improved by everyone having the courage to be rather _more_ different from one another than they usually were.

Professor Merrythought must have glimpsed the determined look in his eyes, for she did not argue further. “I’m sure they will find it a privilege to have you, Filius,” she concluded. “And how about your special friend, Miss McGonagall?”

Filius was slightly surprised at that turn of the conversation, but answered the question with aplomb. “Minerva is hoping to go into the Ministry, I think. Maybe as an Unspeakable in the Transfiguration division.”

She spread her hands wide and grinned at him. “What a marvellously ambitious young pair! You are lucky to have one another; it’s a precious thing.”

Filius nodded, and politely made his exit from her office. All was fine, but he couldn’t quite shake the feeling that the world was busy making some connection that he was yet to grasp. _Ah, well_ , he decided. There was no point in dwelling on vagaries when the horizon was so full of magic that was just waiting to be discovered.

*****

They met by the newel post, after lunch.

"Good afternoon, Head Boy," said Minerva, fingering the shiny badge on the lapel of her robe.

"Good afternoon, Head Girl," Filius replied, and they both grinned.

At that point, though, they were interrupted by the taunts of a gaggle of Slytherin seventh-years: "Aaaah, look at the happy couple!"

"They'll 'ave bloody clever children, though."

"–Ha. Funny looking... but bloody clever, yeah."

Filius had expected Minerva to send some cutting put-down toward their retreating backs – or possibly, to test her new-found power of subtracting House Points for rudeness and insubordination – but instead, she was blushing furiously, focussing on her feet as if she had never seen them before.

“Come on, let’s go for a walk,” said Filius, and Minerva seemed comforted by the familiar routine.

They exchanged news of their summers – which, as usual, were not particularly newsworthy. Minerva had been looking after her brothers most of the time, and Filius had mainly been reading in the local park while his parents had been to work. Their little family had gone to Cornwall for a couple of weeks, though, which had been nice. Filius liked listening to the wash of waves against the shore and the seabirds overhead; it was the most relaxing place he had ever been.

Being Hogwarts’ Head Students added a whole new set of things for Minerva and Filius to discuss. There were speeches and inductions and new student lists to sort out, and meetings to attend with the school governors. They did three circuits of the lake that day, the autumn bluster already whipping against their robes and hats.

Finally, it was nearing the end of the lunch hour and their steps had turned back in the direction of the castle. Minerva stopped, about fifty yards short of the great doors. "Is there... Is there anything you would like to ask me, Filius?" She looked straight at him, eyes apparently full of meaning.

For possibly the first time in his life, Filius had the particular feeling that he was in a test and he didn't know the right answer. "Um..." He racked his brains. They had discussed a plan for the first meeting they had scheduled with Headmaster Dippet, so it couldn't be that. He'd already finished his Transfiguration homework for the week, so it couldn't be that, either. "Um... Oh, yes." Minerva looked terribly alert. "Which days this week would you like to do the after-hours corridor patrol?"

Filius then felt the distinct and confusing notion that he had said something wrong. "Ah... I don't mind doing this evening and Saturday, I guess," was said with such despondency it was as if Minerva was reflecting on an entirely different question. "So... see you later, then."

"Ok, see you later!" Filius turned to move to his next lesson. "Oh – and would you like to go to the Yule Ball with me?" He'd just remembered that needed to be sorted out, as well.

Minerva looked as if a thundercloud had just lifted. She nodded – perhaps rather more vigorously than she had intended to.

"Ok then – marvellous!" said Filius cheerily, and made his way to Potions, vaguely wondering what all the fuss was about.

When the day arrived, the ball was great fun, thought Filius. They dined, and danced – and he found a type of pink cocktail with a cherry and umbrella on top that he really, really liked. Minerva had thought it a bit hot and noisy in the hall, though, so she had repeatedly suggested that they go for a walk outside in the moonlight – which was perfectly pleasant, too.

At the end of the evening, he kissed her on the cheek, and cheerfully returned to Ravenclaw Tower.

*****

It was graduation day. Filius and Minerva were resplendent in robes and hats with house-colour facings and were each clutching a great number of scrolls, ribbons and certificates fresh from the stage that had been erected in the Great Hall. The rest of their year group had dispersed after the ceremony – some to chat with students in lower year groups and teachers, others to have their last hurrah together in Common Rooms, niches and towers – but as Head Boy and Girl, Minerva and Filius were the last to leave.

They had both scored straight 'O's, with Minerva winning the prizes in Transfiguration, Herbology and Astronomy – with special mention of her assured captaincy of the Gryffindor Quidditch team – and Filius coming top in Charms, Defence Against the Dark Arts, Arithmancy and Study of Ancient Runes. That all seemed fair enough – though it was a good thing for their friendship that they had largely chosen different specialist subjects in the sixth and seventh years, Filius thought. Not that he was the jealous type. He did wonder whether Minerva would have taken kindly to being beaten in the subjects she most cared about, though; he was pleased that he never had to put that to the test.

The day was also distinguished, of course, by being the first and only time in a Hogwarts student’s life that their families accompanied them within the school. Filius’ parents were near-bursting with pride and nostalgia, his father grinning from ear to ear in the audience, and his mother almost skittish as the memories flooded back. Minerva’s mother seemed proud, too – although her joy appeared to be tinged with the regret and wistfulness about which Filius had heard so much. 

The formal part of the day was over, and Minerva and Filius tried to find their parents in the post-ceremony crowds. The two little families seemed to be getting on well; in the snatches of conversation Filius heard as they approached, his parents were tactfully avoiding too much discussion of the contemporary magical world with Isobel, restricting themselves to reminiscence about Hogwarts days and repeated praise of both talented offspring.

Filius’ mother scooped him up into a warm embrace while his father patted him on the back so enthusiastically it hurt. “Congratulations, my son! Marvellous! Really marvellous!”

Minerva and her mother greeted one another rather formally.

"Ah, and you must be Miss McGonagall," Delphine said, beaming at Minerva. "It’s wonderful to meet you, at last. I'm so glad Filius has found such a lovely girlfriend!"

In the silence that followed, Minerva turned red, Filius stared purposefully at his feet and Delphine appeared for all the world like a mermaid yanked from water. The awkwardness seemed to stretch on for hours.

“Didn’t Professor Dippet make a wonderful speech?” tried Marvin, gamely. They were all grateful to nod and agree, notwithstanding the fact that it had actually been rather dull.

Some minutes of entrance hall small-talk later, it became clear that they would have to go, soon. Their trunks were all packed, and their parents were beginning to fidget. Filius’ mother and father were clearly imagining the rush to the Hogwarts Express back home; Minerva’s mother was fingering the Portkey she had made for the trip back to the farmhouse.

Filius glanced at where they were standing, at the bottom of the main staircase. “A walk in the gardens, Minerva?” he whispered.

She looked around too, as if noticing their location for the first time. “For old time’s sake.”

They made a vague excuse about needing to go to do some last check, and then slipped outside into the summer air. It was warm, but not hot. Mellow, somehow; almost as if the day itself knew that something was coming to an end.

They took a path around the flower beds and up to the trees at the edge of the forest, intuitively skirting the boundaries, as if for this one last time, it needed to be done properly. The grass was overlong, and bristly in its dryness; the blooms were just on the cusp of dropping their petals. They chatted a little about the ceremony and the scrolls – but mainly walked in silence, savouring the rustle of the blades and the insistent refrain of woodland birds. 

At the end of the copse, they headed for the lake – a familiar route down to the shore where stones were to be skimmed and ripples were to be watched for squid. It was a calm day on the water. Minerva’s eyes seemed to get lost on the far bank as Filius paddled.

Eventually, their steps led back to the main lawns, the castle in sight, and their minutes reaching an end.

Minerva came to a stop. She regarded Filius with wide eyes and then carefully looked away. “A little piece of my heart will always be here, on these walks, you know.” She paused. “I don’t think you really realise that.”

Filius wasn’t quite sure what to say, just then – but he had the distinct impression than almost anything that came to mind was going to be wrong. He liked Minerva – really he did, very much – but he had never liked her _like that_. Not in the way that she maybe liked him. It was terribly awkward.

“You will write, won’t you?” he said, instead. “I shall be terribly anxious to hear all your news from London.”

She nodded, looking a bit resigned. “Yes, I will. And you?”

“Of course! I’ll have so much to tell you.”

Minerva said she was pleased to hear it, but still looked sad.

It was time; they were circling back, just yards from the doors of the castle. Inside, their respective families were waiting, about to whisk them off in different directions.

“I suppose this is goodbye, then.” Now Minerva was crying, but trying not to let it show.

She bent down and they hugged. After all these years, the gardens felt like _theirs_ , now; it was strange to leave them behind. They had walked here come summer scorch or powdery snow; Scottish gale or the first crocuses of spring. They had talked and laughed and argued about anything and everything, and had held one another together in good times and in bad – through the stresses of exams, through the broken bones of Quidditch, and through the unkindness of other people. It had all happened, here. 

Minerva’s eyes fluttered closed as she held Filius tight. Carefully, he kissed her, on the cheek.


	3. Xenophilius

**Xenophilius**

Filius was over the moon to have been accepted into L'Institut de la Magie Expérimentale. The programme – niche and idiosyncratic as it was – was certainly not for everyone, but some of the world’s finest minds had studied there over the years, and many of the magical innovations that Filius admired most had their origins in that unprepossessing old block on the wrong side of Montmartre. 

The first two years consisted of formal lectures and assignments, split into streams: Magical Theory, Wizarding Practice and Magizoology. By owl, Filius had selected Magical Theory – although he was hoping to turn up to as many lectures from the other streams as possible, time allowing. The rest of the pupillage involved constructing an original thesis on an aspect of Magical Development of one’s own interest and choice – with occasional supervisory input from the Institute’s Life Fellows. Completion times for the whole programme varied enormously. The current record for fastest award of Fellowship upon successful completion of a thesis was five years and three months from the date of registration. The record holder for slowest completion was under dispute – but honourable mention was surely given to Hermann Hester-Winklesworth-Prattle, who had been enrolled as a pupil for one-hundred-and fifty-three years, and counting. He had assured his supervisor that his thesis was very nearly almost ready, now – but then again, he had been saying that very thing approximately once a year since 1879.

Filius arrived on the first morning with expensive International Floo Powder in his hair, and a suitcase with copious Internal Extension charms in his hand. He joined the queue at the registration desk, and was handed a form by a harried-looking middle-aged witch, who was probably the Institute's only administrator.

The form contained all of the usual questions about name and address – and then something that pulled-up Filius short: 'Species?'. There were options for ‘Witch/Wizard’, ‘Centaur’, ‘Goblin’, ‘Giant’, ‘Merfolk – please proceed to section 6; Mediterranean Branch Campus’ and ‘Mixed – please specify’.

Filius bit his lip, and felt his palms go sweaty beneath the quill. Suddenly, he felt as if everyone in the crowded lobby must be staring at him, and was cursing the fact that he had cut his fingernails so early that morning. He began to panic, but tried not to let it show – and then with eyes clenched shut, he just ticked the 'Witch/Wizard' box and made his way back to the counter on legs that felt as if they had been hit by a Jelly Jinx.

Filius held his breath when he handed-in the form, but the witch at the registration desk greeted him in desultory tones, scanned it and processed his security pass without a second glance. _'Filius Flitwick,'_ it said. _'Fellowship Candidate, Magical Theory. 100% Wizard.'_

"Hello, there."

Filius jumped at the voice just behind him and spun around, his heart racing.

"Oh, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to frighten you." The voice was attached to a willowy student with dreamy eyes and wisps of long hair the colour of a winter sunrise. "I'm Xenophilius Lovegood. Most people call me Xeno."

Filius took Xeno's extended hand, still wincing at the length of his own nails, but managed to smile and say, "Filius Flitwick. I'm from Great Britain – arrived for the course just this morning."

"Delighted to meet you, Filius. I'm from Britain, too... sort of."

"'Sort of?'" Filius enquired.

"Yes." Xeno looked off into the middle distance, and Filius wondered if he was going to leave the point just there – but then he continued: "My parents are English and Irish, but we've lived all over the place. Where are you going to be living?"

"Sorry?" Filius couldn't work out whether he was being slow, or whether Xeno always talked in non-sequiturs.

"I mean, in Paris. Where are you going to be living?"

"Oh! Um... I don't know, yet." Filius tried not to let his anxiety about that show.

"Excellent. We have a spare room; would you like to come and live with us?"

*****

'Us' turned out to be a group of two young wizards and a witch, all quite desperate for a fourth person to help pay the rent. There was Emile, a dark-haired French chap who was working every hour he could to set up his own restaurant in the Wizarding quarter of Paris; Cecile, a tall and attractive blonde who worked as a trapeze artist in the circus; and Xeno himself, a fellow pupil at the Institute.

Although they were both registering at the beginning of the programme, Xeno had already lived in Paris for a few years – doing odd jobs, watching the world go by, making notes and making friends. As Filius chatted with him, he found a most sympathetic character – and an intriguing one, too.

Socially, Filius found that he naturally gravitated towards people who were somewhat older than him. This wasn't a calculated move or a purposeful choice – not at all. It was more the fact that he was fascinated by talking to people who had seen things, done things and learned things – and just by virtue of how many years they'd had to experience life already, those people tended to have been born at least a bit before Filius had been.

Xeno was four years older, it turned out, but Filius was mostly fascinated by the sheer unconventional nature of his life to that point. Xeno had attended Hogwarts erratically in the lower school – a term here, a term there – being whisked abroad by his vaguely peripatetic mother in between. As a result, he had also attended Ilvermorny, Beauxbatons and Durmstrang for occasional periods, and had various gaps in his official schooling that had mainly involved watching the wildlife from the back of a perpetually-moving caravan. 

One thing that was perfectly obvious, though: they were both Ravenclaws. Xeno's thirst for learning about the world was surpassed perhaps only by Filius' own. In the sitting room of their little flat, they had long, meandering conversations while drinking red wine out of chipped mugs, and trying not to sink too far into the sofa that had given up on having springs some decades before.

Xeno, Emile and Cecily had each done their best to brighten up the garret. Emile's presence was most felt in the kitchen, where bunches of herbs and flowers hung from the ceiling to dry, and the olive-wood chopping board was always well-oiled. Cecily had added some drapes and tassels and posters to the living room and hall. Xeno's contributions were everything that could not be readily identified: knick-knacks and strange souvenirs from around the world, and improvised gadgets and widgets and gizmos of his own creation, held together with copious string and rudimentary sticking charms.

When Filius had taken the spare room they had encouraged him to help decorate, too – a fact which Filius had thought tremendously exciting. Indeed, he had had such fun trying out every decorative charm that his mother had never let him set on his bedroom at home. The walls glowed in the pinks and oranges of desert sunsets, and the ceiling at night shimmered like the aurora borealis. Even the threadbare old carpet was bedecked with little fairy lights that twinkled in the wake of anyone who crossed the room. They all thought it was marvellous.

Filius saw little of Cecily and Emile, though. Those two worked such different hours: swinging through the air or attending to copper pots all night, and then collapsing into bed when Filius and Xeno headed to lectures. 

So it was, then, that Filius and Xeno were often alone together of an evening. They worked across from one another at the rickety old dining table, reading books and spidering ink across parchment. When that was done, they might pop out to the little café across the road for steak-frites, or to Emile’s place for tartiflette – and more often than not, Xeno would coax Filius to stay out later than he had intended, in a little bar by the Seine that was full of painters and pipe-smoke, or perhaps in a basement hung with sequinned curtains and honey-skinned witches who danced sinuously to Arabic music. 

“Try this.” Xenophilius passed Filius a bright green drink. Filius eyed it, suspiciously. “Oh, go on! It’s _la spécialité du maison._ ”

The _maison_ in question was an attic café-bar not far from home. It was packed full of witches and wizards wearing robes that would not usually be seen on the streets of Paris and London: elaborate patchworks, paisley and slashed panelling. Some wore fingerless gloves that revealed ink-stained fingertips; some wore makeup so thick, it was difficult to tell whether a man or a woman lay beneath. Huge hubble-bubble pipes burbled at the centres of knots of patrons; a man in a dirty apron wheezed an accordion in the corner of the room. Behind the bar was an array of liquors, beverages and spirits so colourful and so vast, Filius wondered whether they could all ever be identified, let alone drunk.

Filius accepted the glass from Xeno, and cautiously sipped. It tasted of heat, and sugar, and aniseed, and… his mind wandered at that point, because a bright light just slipped around the corner of his vision.

“See! I told you it was excellent stuff!” Xeno picked up a glass of his own, and ushered them both to a table. “I was thinking about my thesis project this afternoon.”

“Oh?” asked Filius, politely. Whatever this green stuff was, it was jolly good.

“Yes. I think I’m going to go on a world voyage in search of elusive magical creatures. You know, the ones that are out there, but no one has found them, yet.” Xeno polished-off his drink, and motioned for the barman to bring another round of the same. “The big game, I mean. Not just another sub-species of Grindylow or Flobberworm or what have you. I’m going to discover whole new _phyla_ of creatures. As massive as the Erumpent; as cryptic as the Thestral; as elegant as the Unicorn. ”

Filius furrowed his brow and swallowed hard. “Mmm. Isn’t that quite a high-risk proposal? I mean, what if they’re _not_ really out there, after all?” From the Magizoology lectures that Filius had attended, he’d got the impression that most classes of major beast were now known to wizardkind. The last major push had been in the 1850s, and the habitats that remained uncharted now were vanishing by the year.

Xeno waved his hand elaborately. “Oh, tush and nonsense. I just _know_ it’ll work.” He poured a refill into both of their glasses.

Filius drank again, and shuddered a little – though not because the feeling was unpleasant. He was suffused with a sudden feeling of warmth and more little green lights played across his vision. _Maybe Xeno’s ideas are spot-on, after all_ he mused. “Right-ho, then.”

“Yes! That’s more like it! It just takes an open mind and…. bam! A brand new discovery or three will just come.”

“Mmmm,” agreed Filius. It all sounded very plausible, now. Especially as the lights had coalesced into fairies, and they were dancing prettily.

Xeno topped up their glasses again. “That’s right Filius… the Ravenclaw spirit… you’ve just got to _believe_.”

The conversation seemed to potter in genial circles from then on, with circles of drinks glasses building up on the table, and circles of fairies swooning in Filius’ vision. In a vague corner of his mind, Filius decided that he wouldn’t mention this to his parents in his next letter – or in his next owl to Minerva, for that matter. 

And yet, it all felt right and good, somehow. As if it were high time for such things, and Xeno was just the right person to be listening to, just now.

Eventually they made it home, with a bottle or two of that marvellous green stuff for the road. Emile and Cecily gave them sideways looks as they swayed up the stairs, but were kind enough to pour each a very large glass of water before dawnlight bedtime.

*****

"I like it, by the way." Xeno and Filius were sitting on the person-eating sofa in their flat, the best part of the spirit bottle having already gone fairy-wards. With a sweeping hand, Xeno gestured at Filius' entire person, liberally sploshing his drink across the sofa in the process. Filius raised his eyebrows for further explanation.

Xeno sighed theatrically, as if his meaning should have been perfectly obvious. "I mean, you being part goblin. I like it."

At that, Filius felt every muscle in his body seize. The sip of drink he had half-swallowed turned to a lump in his throat, and an icy panic overtook him.

Xeno looked puzzled, and then turned his head to one side, eyes on Filius as if he were a curious specimen, after all. "I said I _like_ it." The emphasis was placed as if he were talking to a particularly slow child.

Filius forced himself to relax, and then to think. "But, how did you find out? Has someone been saying things about me?"

"No." Xeno's frown intensified, as if Filius really _was_ asking silly questions.

"Then how did you...?"

Xeno spread his hands wide, and just repeated his broad, all-encompassing gesture in Filius' direction, losing the rest of the liquid out of his glass in the process. He seemed to imply that the facts were so perfectly obvious to him, it was as if Filius had been denying having a nose, say, or having hands.

At that, Filius had to laugh. "I guess some people are more perceptive than others." He looked at Xeno squarely. "Thank you."

Xeno rolled his eyes. "Oh, for Merlin's sake, I said I _like_ it!"

And then, something very curious happened. Slowly, asking permission with his eyes at every step, Xeno moved closer to sit right by Filius. He turned so that they were facing, and put his hands gently on Filius' thighs. "Mmmm?"

"Ah..." For all his learning, Filius had absolutely no idea what to say or do next. The sensation was nice. No, more than _nice_ , in fact, it was exciting and different, and he didn't want to accidentally do something that would make it stop.

Xeno must have guessed at least some of that, because he started to move his hands where they lay, stroking upwards, along Filius' robes. Without thinking, Filius widened his legs, and Xeno ghosted his fingers across the front of Filius' trousers.

"Aaaahhh..." Filius' mind was reeling, trying to make some sense of what was happening to him. Of course, he knew about love and sex – in theory, that is. He knew that was something that happened with a girl – usually in the process of settling down and starting a family. 

Indeed, Filius thought some girls were pretty – in the way that he thought flowers and sunsets and bunny rabbits were pretty. He was good friends with some girls – who he thought intelligent, capable and amusing. 

But . This feeling of his body being wound like elastic about to break, and his breathing quick and tremulous, and a hot panic in his blood that needed to grab and roughly to be grabbed in return... this was not something he had associated with any girl. Indeed, it was not something he had ever _felt_ before. Not really. Some part of Filius' brain – the part that was not soaked in being hot and needy and gasping – began to wonder if he was ill.

Xeno didn't leave time for such thoughts, though – because when he reached _inside_ Filius' trousers and held him there, every rational notion was pushed away. There was only a warm grasp; skin; movement; pressure and cries. Filius had never conceived of such urgency; such bliss.

Suddenly, girls seemed to have rather gone out of the window.

******

The first year and a half of lectures and essays and liquor really whipped by. Filius felt that he had learned so much – about both arcane magic, and life in general.

Studying at the Institute turned out to be a very independent business. The Resident Fellows were a reserved bunch, much as Professor Merrythought had intimated: brilliantly vague and vaguely brilliant. _Lectures_ were exactly that. An absolute specialist would talk on a given subject for precisely the allocated period of time – often to their own shoes. Filius suspected that the lectures would go ahead in exactly the same manner, regardless of whether any pupils were actually present in the room. It was almost as if the Resident Fellows had been thinking about their topics of own especial interest for so long and so deeply, it was to exclusion of thinking about all other things, including the presence or absence of other people.

Indeed, it was a good job that Filius had never really needed any external stimulus to read and learn, he reflected; he would naturally study whether or not there were deadlines or mentors to help. The relationship with pupils was very different from what he had experienced at Hogwarts; the Resident Fellows were there to pontificate, not to instruct. Indeed, Filius had never even met the wizard who would most likely be his supervisor in the Magic-Neutral Laboratory. It was rumoured that Vice-President Hazenschaft left the laboratory only to eat and to sleep, and frequently forgot to do either of those.

The library was marvellous, though. The Institute had a collection of rare and obscure texts so rich and diverse, it made Hogwarts’ Restricted Section look like a childrens’ bookshop. Filius took great joy in his extensive borrowing privileges, regularly emerging with a stack so large and heavy he had to levitate them home before him.

Home itself continued to be colourful and merry. Filius and Xeno had become firm friends, chatting and pontificating together until the early hours, and sometimes – usually when there had been quite a lot to drink – _doing things_ with one another that were exciting and slapdash and distinctly Parisian. Gosh, it was fun. More fun than Filius had even imagined his time at the Institute could have been – and that was jolly high praise.

******

Toward the end of the second year, the pupils’ most important assignment to that point was due: they had to submit a thorough Research Proposal for their thesis years – to be poured-over, examined, and – if they were lucky – passed, by the Fellows’ Thesis Committee.

Filius and Xeno had been working on theirs for months, and were quite pleased with their readied submissions. Indeed, on the evening before the submission date, they were having a celebratory drink, parchment bundles neatly sealed and folded in readiness for the next morning. Filius couldn’t help thinking it was bittersweet, though; in a few scant weeks, their time in Paris together would come to an end.

“Are you, Cecily and Emile going to get a new housemate when I’m gone?” asked Xeno.

Filius frowned and then shrugged. “I haven’t thought about it, actually.” This was true. Although the flat did have four little bedrooms and one would be empty and rentless, Filius was not too distracted by the cost of living there; his twenty-first birthday was just a few months away, and the promised inheritance would take away any student money worries. “Remind me – where exactly are you going for your thesis project?”

Xeno make a broad sweeping gesture, once more sprinkling the now well-marinated sofa in the process. “Oh, _everywhere!_ ” he replied. “Mountain, desert and metropolis. Pole and equator. Plains and rivers. I’m going to find natural magic the like of which this Institute has never before seen!”

Filius took that in and gave a wry smile. How very like Xeno to think that his project was going to be utterly game-changing for Wizarding academe. How preposterous; how uplifting. 

Somewhere in the back of Filius’ mind, his younger self was sitting in the Ravenclaw Common Room, gazing at the infinite night sky. _You can reach for the stars._ Was that naïve?

Now though, a thought rather closer to home pressed upon him. He glanced around their little flat – the sunset charm still going strong on the walls, and all of Xeno’s unidentifiable knick-knacks on proud display. It just wouldn’t be the same if their twosome became just a one. “Oh, Xeno! I’ll miss you. We’ve had such fun, and–”

“–Then why don’t you come with me?” The response came without missing a beat.

“What?” Filius blinked.

“I said, ‘come with me’. Write a thesis that will take you around the world. Never mind those dry old controlled conditions experiments in the Institute. Surely there’s plenty of magic out there that you’d like to see? Foreign Charms? Magical Theory of worldwide cultures? Even a clever-cloggs like you can’t have learned it all, yet.”

Xeno putting it so simply like that – innocently, even – rocked Filius’ world to the core. 

At first, he felt simply confused. Xeno must be thinking about someone else. Then, as the idea settled and became to squirm a little in his brain, Filius felt a great wash of academic disloyalty in even _considering_ another path. It was as if he had made a pact with the Magic-Neutral Laboratory all those years ago to work in it, and going back on that now would be… 

_Well, what would it be?_ thought Filius. To whom had he actually promised his work?

Suddenly, that whole train of thought seemed absurd. So… yes, he _could_ just go, couldn’t he? The whole world was out there, with its mysteries and puzzles waiting to be discovered, and… why _shouldn’t_ he go and experience it? Really, why not? 

Suddenly, Filius felt a bubble of excitement rise up within him. The horizons! The possibilities!

But then – crashing back down to earth – he saw that there was a very real problem. “I can’t,” said Filius, in heavy tones. “The final thesis proposal submissions are due first thing, and everything I’ve written is laboratory-based.”

Xeno shrugged and looked at their chipped wall clock: “Well, you’ve got seven hours, haven’t you?”

Again, Filius took that in, marvelling at the straightforwardness of it all. Slowly, he nodded, and decided, _yes, he did_. He ran to his desk, and found a clean piece of parchment.

Filius stayed up all night, crafting his proposal again from scratch. It was amazing how quickly it flowed from his quill – almost as if all of his ideas and plans had been bottled-up inside, just waiting for an outlet. 

Come daybreak, his hand hurt and his eyes were swimming in front of the inked letters – but he managed to deliver his ribboned scroll to the submission office at five minutes to nine. 

Filius went back home and collapsed on his bed, feeling both flooded with relief, and an enormous creeping sense of _what have I done?_

_Ah, well,_ he thought again, as he drifted off into a comatose sleep, _at least I don’t have to worry about funding the whole malarkey_. A silent thanks was dispatched upwards to that Great-Great-Uncle he had never met. _But how on earth am I going to break the news to Mother?_

******

They did not travel at exactly the same pace – often, Filius’ explorations took him to historic towns and villages of learning, whereas Xeno was usually keen to camp out in the wildest and least inhabited parts of the landscape – but they generally stuck together, making big moves across countries and regions when both were ready.

Filius had been relieved when his hastily-written new proposal was returned with approval; approbation, even. He was trying to trace the root of Charm Lore – across countries and languages, cultures and climates. Filius’ theory was that wizardkind must have harnessed magic for the first time in one place on earth, many thousands of years ago. Since then, he reckoned, the magical peoples of the world had migrated and colonised new terrains, their magical practices developing and adapting to new environments – just as their appearances slowly but surely changed over time. It stood to reason, then, Filius thought, that there must be some common _essence_ of casting and controlling magic that all the world’s Wizarding traditions had in common… and if he could map the differences in charms across the globe – illuminating those radiating lines of movement and change over the millennia – he could find the source of it all.

They started off in Scandinavia. Xeno went hunting for shapeshifting creatures that lived within the ice, while Filius carefully catalogued the nautical magic of those seafaring nations. Heading on to the Russian tundra yielded wandless Fire Charms of the nomadic peoples there, and then they ventured down to the Caspian Sea, finding Runic magic of the Assyrians that was still practised in tiny villages that nestled on cliff-faces and a small but ferocious form of flesh-eating Doxy. Next came the Arabian countries, Africa and Madagascar. They took a gut-wrenching International Portkey to the tip of Chile, and had to stay in bed for three days until the dizziness wore off.

Peru was one of Filius’ most productive stays. Examining the ruins of Machu Picchu, he found inscribed incantations that were essentially the same as those he’d seen in the Sudan; his squeal of “Aha!” reverberated around the mountains and scared at least three herds of grazing alpaca.

After four years on the road, Filius’ thesis was beginning to take shape. He had reams and reams of carefully catalogued observations and descriptions, and had devised his own system for classifying each new charm he found in local use. The patterns were beginning to settle in his mind, like the twigs and branches of a beautiful big tree.

They crossed from Alaska back to Russia, taking an underwater bubble-boat across the Bering Strait. In the temples of Japan, Filius learned charms of incense and spirit; in Indonesia, he met wand-makers who use rolled-up leaves and Demiguise hair, crafting wands that are the best at deceptive magic in the world.

Xeno and Filius journeyed through the vast outbacks of Australia and volcanic fields of New Zealand. They looped back, reaching the Sumatran Straits and the Bay of Bengal – and Filius was ecstatic to find that his lines of radiation began to point in the opposite direction! It was China. He was sure of it.

With that hypothesis so firmly in his mind, Filius elected to scour and settle in China for his most concentrated period thus far. Xeno seemed happy to go along with it. Each of Filius’ new observations were settling well into the picture he had drawn. He found charms that shared fundamental magic with those he’d seen in Mexico, and India, and even at Hogwarts; the similarities were extraordinary! If he was right, Magical Theory would never be the same, again. At the beginning of their eighth year, Filius started to write, distilling his packing-cases of notes into prose that seemed to bubble out of his quill with sheer excitement. He was on the home-straight, now; he could feel it.

Over time, though, as Filius’ thesis became closer and closer to completion, Xeno seemed farther and farther away from ever putting ink to parchment. 

He had smoked, imbibed and inhaled pretty much every controlled substance they had encountered – extolling at length the ‘mind-broadening’ properties, but becoming blanker and more erratic by the day. Sometimes he would wake up before dawn in a mad flurry of activity – setting dozens of animal traps with crystals to refract the light _just so_ – only to dismantle everything again that afternoon. Sometimes he would claim a sighting so momentous, so magnificent, it was going to revolutionise the whole study of Magizoology – but then forget all about it in a week’s time. Sometimes he would just stay in bed all day, gazing at the ceiling with wide wondering eyes.

Filius had made plenty of gentle attempts to try to help Xeno get on track, but the truth was, Xeno was incredibly difficult to help. All of Filius’ suggestions were met with unshakable confidence that all was in hand, the thesis was all but written, and the Crumple-Horned Snorkack was just around the corner.

Filius was concerned, but didn’t want to preach. After all, in this big wide world, maybe the Crumple-Horned Snorkack really _was_ just around the corner. He would never knowingly pour cold water on another man’s dreams, nor wish to claim arbitrary limits to Wizarding discovery, after all. 

So, Filius did his best to keep Xeno cheerful and fed as they moved from place to place. Xeno probably didn’t realise that his own contribution to the kitty had been exhausted about six and a half years prior, and Filius was funding them both. Filius didn’t mind, though. Indeed, he couldn’t think of any better use for such a generous inheritance.

They had settled for a while in a wooden townhouse near the edge of Beijing. Increasingly, Filius was just writing now, not gathering more primary evidence. Although he absolutely loved everything that could be seen and learned, he had begun to feel that perhaps some aspect was missing. He had absorbed so much from the world – like an intelligent sponge – but now, he needed to wring himself out a little; to actually synthesise something. To make a mark. He needed to put all of that knowledge into some kind of use; to give something back.

It was serendipitous, then, that a pointy-eared owl swooped through the window on one grey afternoon. It looked distinctly unimpressed by the International missive that was tied to its foot – so much so, that Filius hastily removed the second draft of his ninth chapter from the reach of a sharp beak. After dispatching the owl with some leftover cold dim sum, Filius opened the envelope. It contained a clipping from _The Daily Prophet_ , with a brief covering note:

> _Dear Filius,_
> 
> _Is it time to come home?_
> 
> _With love,_
> 
> _Mama._

  
Filius frowned a little, feeling that prickle of guilt he always felt when he realised it had been too long since he wrote to anyone back in Britain. He turned then to the newspaper cutting, and read. 

> _Hogwarts Professor retires after long service. Suitable candidates requested for Charms position. Please send curriculum vitae and eloquent covering letter to Headmaster Albus Dumbledore, for immediate start._

Filius took a long look at the clipping, reading it ten, twenty times. He reached for a clean sheet of parchment, and began to write.


	4. Horace

**Horace**

Filius turned up for his interview straight after a stop in Paris to submit his thesis. The latter had involved handing-in his polished tome to the same middle-aged administrative witch as ten years prior. She had looked up from her book, and then given him a nod and a scrappy receipt. The event had exuded all of the pomp and ceremony of buying a can of beans.

"Ah, Filius! I remember you in my Transfiguration classes. You were very able." Professor Dumbledore beamed at Filius as he was escorted into the interview room.

"Thank you," replied Filius – pleased at the warm reception, but thinking it rather unfortunate that it was his careful bookwork in Transfiguration that had been remembered, not his native talents for Charms and Defence.

“Allow me to introduce some of our school governors.” Professor Dumbledore gestured to each in turn: “Muriel Prewett; Arcturus Black; Abraxas Malfoy.”

The panel gave Filius the merest nod; he took the proffered seat and cast a quick auto-levitation charm so he could see over the table properly.

The interview commenced with various questions about Charms Theory that Filius found very straightforward. Indeed, it all seemed to be going very well; he performed the practical demonstrations they requested with ease, and even managed to mention a little about his thesis. 

Filius felt a stone fall into his stomach, though, when Abraxas Malfoy looked him up and down and wrinkled his nose. “Tell us about your ancestry.”

“I’m… I’m English,” Filius tried.

Mr Malfoy rolled his eyes. “Yes? And?”

“My parents… Marvin and Delphine Flitwick, both attended Hogwarts.”

Filius received the darkest of looks. “For an intelligent man, Mr Flitwick, you are being remarkably slow.”

“Ah! Filius, you were always one to be modest about your achievements and prestige!” swept-in Professor Dumbledore. “The fact is, Abraxas, that the Flitwick bloodline – together with its petite characteristics – can be traced back to a Filipina pure-blood princess who sailed for England in 1428. Filius is so obviously one of her descendants, I know he doesn’t like to brag about it.”

Messrs Malfoy and Black looked a little embarrassed at that, while Mrs Prewett simply appeared non-plussed. Having never traced his family tree that far back, Filius had no idea whether it was true or not – but either way, he was relieved when the line of questioning then moved on to other matters.

*****

From her position in the Ministry, Minerva owled Filius her warmest congratulations. It would be nice to reconnect with Minerva, he thought; he had plenty of fresh fuel for their arguments from his world travels. From the occasional missives they had exchanged while he had been away, though, her work as an Unspeakable did seem to be rather dour. Pacing his parents’ living room, Filius earnestly hoped that the business of settling down into a real job back home wouldn’t have to be like that.

Indeed, at first, Filius found it was rather difficult to readjust to being back in Britain: living in a specified place that seemed as if it could be permanent; having a clear daily timetable, as opposed to just doing what felt right at any given moment; wearing smart woollen clothes, rather than the linen tunics that Filius had inhabited during much of his time away; and getting used to speaking English again, all the time. Languages had come very naturally to him while they had journeyed, and Filius had very much enjoyed learning foreign tongues and dialects.

When his first day as a real, contracted Professor arrived, Filius unpacked and arrayed the souvenirs of his travels about his new quarters. Much as he was tempted, he didn’t feel that he could quite use the sunset charm and the fairy-lit carpet within those illustrious old walls; he made do with a large set of framed photographs and a glass case of ornaments.

Filius straightened his bow tie in the mirror, and tapped his wand as it nestled in his sleeve. With a deep breath, he set off to meet his new colleagues in the Staff Room.

It was about five o’clock on a Tuesday late in August. The castle was empty of students; judging by the animated chatter that wafted through the Staff Room door, the Professors were having a last hurrah before the work of the new year settled upon them.

At Filius’ entrance, the hubbub stopped, and everyone turned to face him. “Good afternoon. I’m Filius Flitwick, the new Charms Professor.”

“Oh, Filius! How wonderful to see you again!” A voice called from behind several sofas.

“And you, Professor Beery,” Filius replied, politely.

“Oh, tush. It’s ‘Herbert’ now, isn’t it? You’ll have to get used to that.” He emerged and shook Filius’ hand with two greenhouse-chapped palms. “Now, let me see… You’ll remember Bathsheba–”

“–Hello, Filius.”

“–And Silvanus–”

“–Nice to have ya back, laddie.”

“–And Cuthbert, but he’s floated off for a while. Apollyon, too, but he tends to keep himself to himself… and Albus of course, but he never has the time to sit and chat with us mere mortals in here!” Filius nodded and waved in a cheerful sort of way at the assembled company. “Now let me introduce the people you won’t have met. This is Wilhelmina, who is helping out in Care of Magical Creatures while Silvanus convalesces.”

A very solid-looking witch bounded up to Herbert and Filius, and took Filius by the hand. “–What-ho, you little genius, you!” she boomed. “I’ve heard all about your voyaging!”

“Gosh, thank you.” Filius blushed.

“This is Septima,” continued Herbert, “who joined us from Beauxbatons to teach Arithmancy when Professor Dippet retired last year.”

“It’s good to meet you, Filius,” said a very delicate voice from behind them.

“And this is Horace: Potions Master and… _bon-viveur._ ”

A silk handkerchief was waved elaborately in the air from the Staff Room’s most comfortable overstuffed armchair. Filius went over, and found a most comfortably overstuffed wizard lounging therein. 

“I say! How delightful. It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Filius. My name is Horace Slughorn. I don't think we've met; you must have come through Hogwarts in that decade I was potioneering abroad. But, well, I'm back now, and all the better for it! Would you care to take a seat and have some crystallised pineapple?”

*****

Within a few short weeks, Filius and Horace became firm friends. Horace’s manner reminded Filius a little of Xeno’s affability – but where Xeno lacked focus, Horace had exquisite judgement and strategy. Indeed, Filius found that beneath his avuncular exterior, Horace did absolutely nothing without a carefully-crafted plan. It was fascinating, and Filius felt he could learn a great deal from Horace’s wily approach to life. Indeed, the man was so clever, he wouldn’t do as much as make a cup of tea without knowing exactly what was in it for him, and why.

That was not so say he was a bad sort, though – not at all. In fact, Horace was one of the kindest and most generous people Filius had ever met.

He helped Filius to talk through lesson plans for his first weeks of teaching, making helpful suggestions about pace, depth, and how to handle bad behaviour. He explained the new O.W.L. and N.E.W.T. syllabi – giving hints and tips on the stress the examiners were putting on essay-writing these days – and he talked Filius through the special rates to which Hogwarts staff were entitled at the bookshops and apothecaries of Hogsmeade and Diagon Alley. All that was accompanied by lavish offers of port, chocolates, cheese, sweetmeats, and goodness knows what else that Horace always kept in plentiful supply. Indeed, what with the Hogwarts catering and Horace’s largesse, Filius reckoned he’d be getting a bit of a tummy himself, if he wasn’t careful. Overall, it was lovely to have been taken under such a competent and thoughtful wing; he was very grateful.

Filius wrote as much to both Minerva and Xeno. Minerva replied with lots of questions, taking a keen interest in the workings of his new life as a Professor. Xeno didn’t reply at all – and that did nothing to relieve Filius’ tickling feelings of guilt about leaving Xeno out in the Far East.

At the time, they had discussed it, and Xeno had been perfectly relaxed about the matter. He had wished Filius all the very best, and assured him that carrying on the world tour alone would be no problem at all. Filius had been pleased to hear that, but couldn’t quite decide whether he was being respectful or internally disingenuous at taking the other man at his word. They had marked Filius’ departure with an excellent meal in a local restaurant, a copious amount of rice wine and a slapdash roll in the hay afterwards. It was all topped off with a large secret transfer of funds from Filius’ Gringotts account to Xeno’s – which seemed to soothe both all and none of Filius’ concerns, depending upon his mood.

“What’s distracting you, old chap?” asked Horace.

They were sitting in their preferred corner of the Staff Room with a decanter of Madeira and a box of chocolates. The November rain was sliding down the windowpanes as the fire burned low in the grate.

Filius gave a bit of a bashful smile. "You're very perceptive." Horace made an expansive shrug, as if to absorb the compliment. "I left a friend out in China, and I'm worried about how he might be coping."

"Mmmm." Horace nodded. “And is there anything you can do about it from here?”

Filius sighed. “Well, I've written to him a few times now, but he hasn't replied. I don't know exactly where he is, so I can't Floo. So – not really.”

Horace took that in. "And do you intend to leave here and go back to China to find him?"

Filius was a little taken aback by that. He considered the question on its own merits. He'd just started his new job, and really wanted to do well. Leaving his post in the middle of a term to go on a wild Bowtruckle chase to some now-unknown location in China would, he was honest, be a terrible idea. "I guess not."

“Mmm." Horace nodded, assuredly. "Then I prescribe a simple dose of self-Occlumency.”

Filius frowned. “Sorry, what's that?” Of course, he knew what Occlumency was – though had never had much cause to practice it, himself – but had never heard the term in the reflective.

"It's an excellent form of magic for improving one's well-being." Horace smiled, getting into his stride. "I can lock things away. I don’t dwell on the sadder and nastier things in life – and neither should you." 

Filius raised his eyebrows in interest. "'Lock things away'?"

"Oh, yes. Never be bothered again by a gnawing worry that you're powerless to solve. I can show you, if you like? Brilliant trick. One of the best ways to better your quality of life – I guarantee it.”

Horace taught Filius the incantation, and explained the preparation that was necessary to put mental barriers in place. "They won't last indefinitely, though, mind. You have to strengthen them from time to time, or they'll give way."

Filius was happy to learn the spell; it was certainly an interesting adaptation of the standard _Occlumens._ The trial barriers he put up felt odd in his mind, though, and he dispelled them quickly. It was a bit like having a piece of something stuck between one's teeth – objectively harmless, but Filius couldn't stop fiddling at them until they had gone away. 

Nevertheless, he mastered the charm smoothly, and thanked Horace for his teaching. Filius never expected to use it – indeed, he couldn't imagine wanting to shut-off any part of his brain, however troublesome. As a true Ravenclaw, though, would never turn down the opportunity to learn new magic. _Besides,_ Filius mused, _even the most eclectic knowledge may one day come in useful_.

*****

"Good evening, Horace! Tonight, drinks are on me." Filius had done his best to select an elf-made wine of a good vintage. Given the meagre selection the Hogsmeade merchant had to offer, it probably wasn't quite up to Horace's home-cellared standards, but it was pretty decent, none the less.

"Oho! What's the occasion?"

"I heard today that my thesis was approved by the Institute's examiners. So, I now qualify as a Fellow of L'Institut de la Magie Expérimentale!" Filius was grinning from ear to ear, especially as Horace was only the second person he had told since the news had arrived that morning. He had Flooed his parents straight away, and they had sent a lovely bunch of flowers by Express Owl.

"Oh, well done, old chap! –So, what does that get you?"

Filius felt suddenly floored. He hesitated, thinking at once that there must be a simple answer, and drawing a blank.

Horace sensed the hiatus, and rephrased: "I mean, what's the _point_ of it?"

"Umm... point?" he parroted. It was not a question Filius had ever asked himself, because he had lived the past decade assuming that the point was obvious. "...I suppose I could go and live at the Institute with the Resident Fellows."

Horace nodded, but wrinkled his brow. "Alright. And would you want to do that?"

"No." Filius answered instinctively before he had even really considered the matter; he was shocked at how easily and truly that answer came. It was strange, really. Had he been asked that very question aged seventeen, he would have said that he couldn't think of anything better... but now the world seemed much bigger and broader and more variegated than life at the Institute could afford. "Well, I can put the certificate on my wall and feel self-satisfied every time I look at it," he offered, with wry humour.

"–And self-satisfaction is, after all, the best form of satisfaction, is it not?" agreed Horace.

"And I suppose I could write up my thesis into a book..."

"Now, that's more like it. Think of the royalties!"

Filius raised his eyebrows, a little quizzically. He had not, in fact, thought about any royalties, but it was a fair point.

"Well, anyway," blustered Horace, "good for you! –Listen, everyone!" Bellowing from their preferred niche in the corner, he brought the surrounding Staff Room conversations to silence. "Filius has just become even _more_ eminent. Go on, m'boy, tell them all about it. Then we can all raise a glass to you!"

*****

As the months progressed, Filius made something of a study of Horace's self-assurance. At Hogwarts and the Institute, he had never been a particularly shy person – and on his travels, necessarily even less so – but Filius had never really considered the art of socialising or working a room.

In Horace's hands, though, it certainly _was_ an art form. The man had a knack of making anyone feel immediately comfortable – with a thoughtful offer of comestibles, or expression of interest in something personal to them. His repertoire of jokes and anecdotes was second to none, and he was always abreast of current affairs – usually with a witty rejoinder waiting in the wings alongside jolly thorough knowledge. Filius wondered whether he, himself, should divert some time away from _Magical Theory Monthly_ to the more general news and society gossip.

Part and parcel of that, Horace seemed to know everyone who knew anyone. Filius often mused whether one could make a diagram of all of Horace's contacts and links – eventually concluding that the problem would be far too multi-dimensional to sensibly express on parchment. His biannual parties were attended from around the world. Indeed, the sheer reach of Horace's net was awe-inspiring; it must have taken years of bonhomous and careful curation.

Given those facts, Filius did begin to wonder why such a well-connected wizard deigned to spend so many evenings a week chatting away and sharing a drink and a nibble with him. He even asked once, and was met with a cheery reply of, "Because you're good company, my friend! As simple as that." 

The answer had made Filius smile; although happy with his friends, he had never considered himself to be a popular person. Such approbation from the resident queen bee was surely something to install a warm bubble inside one's breast.

Taking such feelings to their zenith, Horace seemed to be perpetually _wrapped_ in a warm bubble, as one might be wrapped in a priceless fur. He exuded studied contentment – with his proficiency at brewing, his relationship with the students, his family history and his varied social life.

What's more, Horace seemed supremely comfortable in his own skin – and Filius had to admit, that was quite attractive. Horace was plush and generous, in every sense of the words. His robes were made of the finest fabrics, and he drank only the finest wines. His body was plump and rich; Horace took up space with supreme confidence, lounging as if the swoosh of his hair and the curves of his belly and rump were on grand display. More than once, Filius found himself looking.

*****

It was a Sunday in January that already had little to recommend it. Filius' Christmas break back home was sufficiently far away to have receded into memory, and the unrelenting Scottish rain did little to lift one's spirits. He was staring at the Staff Room copy of the _Prophet_ , but not really reading it. Although everyone had said that he'd taken to this teaching business very well, he did feel incredibly tired.

All of a sudden, Horace stormed into the Staff Room, red-faced and discombobulated.

"Oh dear!" called Filius. "What's the matter?"

“Goblins, that’s what!" Horace reached for the Firewhisky decanter, even though it was barely 3 p.m. "Ugh. Revolting creatures. I can’t stand them."

Filius felt immediately tense, but sternly reminded himself that he had no reason to. He willed himself to sound placid: "Would you like to talk about it?"

Horace downed a measure, then poured another before coming to sit in his accustomed armchair. "I've just come back from Gringotts. Several tricky meetings about the family estate. Aggressive they were, throughout – and then the little bastards tried to cheat me out of my dear late Mama’s jewellery!"

“Oh,” said Filius, buying time. Horace seemed rather a young wizard to have already lost his mother. He had never mentioned that, before. Intending it to cover a multitude of meanings, Filius added, “I’m sorry.”

“Yes.” Horace’s voice was choked. A look of unspeakable desolation settled on his face – but then, he twitched a little and blinked his eyes hard, and it was gone as suddenly as it had arrived, the outraged tone again in full force. “That collection has been in the Slughorn family for generations, I tell you! Generations! To think that those pointy-eared thieves are sniffing about my family vault… it’s appalling, that’s what it is. Completely appalling."

From the history he had learned, it sounded to Filius like a typical case of craftsmanship dispute. "The jewellery – I take it, it's goblin-made?"

"Of course; only the finest."

"And the Gringotts goblins claim ancestry to the original makers?" _Or may even be the original makers, themselves,_ Filius thought. Goblins could live for a very long time.

"Some spurious claim or other; yes. But I explained to them – those jewels were my _mother's_. She wore them on her wedding day, just as her mother and her grandmother had, before her – and their mothers had, before them.

"And then the goblin said... horrible, filthy things they are, aren’t they? With their shifty unblinking eyes and their pointy long claws…”

Without thinking, Filius glanced down at his fingernails. They were short and neat, having been cut only a few hours ago – but they did grow like the clappers.

"The goblin said," continued Horace, "'We reserve the right to confiscate any stolen treasure that rests in our vaults. And I hereby give notice...' 

"'Stolen', indeed! The very nerve! I was doubly pleased then that I'd taken along my lawyer – charming chap from Platinum-Craft Chambers, you must meet him some day – because we upped and left then and there, no deal signed." Horace drained his second glass. "He'll sort it all out for me, I daresay. But the point is, he shouldn't have to. 

"'Never trust any creature under four foot in height’, that’s what I say!”

The last comment bounced around the walls of the empty Staff Room. Filius looked from his fingernails to his feet in the silence that followed – and then Horace took a mighty intake of breath.

“Oh gosh! My heartfelt apologies, old chap. I didn’t for a second mean… that is, you’re not in slightest like…”

“Quite alright! Not at all!” Filius bounced in. He forced a smile, and heard his own voice sounding overly hearty.

"But really. Very thoughtless of me. Please forget all about it."

Now feeling discombobulated himself, Filius didn't quite have the reach for social grace; he defaulted to the pedantic, making a simple statement of fact: “Oh, I don’t forget things.”

Horace’s face fell at that. 

Realising the problem, then _Filius_ rushed to explain himself. “–I don’t mean that I bear grudges, or anything so sinister – oh, no. More that I _physically_ don't forget things. When something has gone in – whatever it is, really – it just sticks.”

Horace nodded, slowly. A warm smile blossomed on his face. "You are a true Ravenclaw, my friend. Rowena herself would have been proud. But anyway, enough about my day. How was yours?"

Feeling glad that the scope for misunderstandings had now passed, Filius allowed himself to relax. He gave an almighty sigh, shook his head and rubbed his temples, all at once. "I haven't had a wink of sleep..."

"Oh? How so?"

"Well, it all started last week, when Professor Dumbledore asked me to be Acting Head of House. You know, ever since the incident... with Silvanus... and the Blast-Ended Screwt..."

"Mmm," said Horace, emphatically.

"For nights, there have been boys sneaking into the girls dormitories every hour, experimental firework charms going off on the Common Room ceiling, and a first year so terribly upset and homesick she's coming to me and crying as soon as the lights go out. I've done my best to comfort her – showed her some funny little charms, told a story, that sort of thing – and it seems to work. That is, until she's had an awful nightmare and comes back again... And so it goes on."

"Oh, my sympathies, old chap." Horace patted Filius on the knee. "I don't remember Silvanus having these troubles with the Ravenclaws, though?"

Filius pursed his lips. "I'm not sure he _heard_ them. –But the thing is, I can. And while I'm responsible for them – I guess I _want_ to."

"Very noble of you, my friend. I'd never be able to function without my proper dose of beauty sleep, though – as you well know! How can I make sure you don't get too exhausted?"

Filius spread his hands, deflecting the compliment. "Oh, it's fine. I'm fine. I'm sure everything will be alright."

"That's the spirit," said Horace, encouragingly. "Very chipper of you, in the circs."

“Well, no-one ever got promoted for being negative about things,” rejoined Filius, learning a little from Horace’s rhetoric.

Horace beamed, as if Filius had just said something rather marvellous. “Quite right, old chap! Quite right. We'll make a Slytherin out of you, yet." Filius laughed. "No – really. You just need to decide what you want, and then work out how to get it. The world's your oyster."

*****

“So, Filius, m’boy.” Horace reclined lazily on the Staff Room sofa. With evening glasses of port, they were the only two left around, recounting tales of their various travels. “How would you feel if I were to proposition you?”

“I’m sorry what?” It all came out in a jumble.

Horace chuckled. “Well, there’s something of a dearth of gentlemen who prefer gentlemen around here, isn’t there? – Apart from old Dumbles, of course, but _no one’s_ getting anywhere with him. I just thought that I could show you a good time.” He paused. “I _am_ right, aren’t I? About you, that is, my friend?”

Filius blinked. Then blinked again. "Um… yes.” It was the truth, but Filius realised that he had never actually put the matter into words, before. It was strangely liberating to do so. Slowly, he found himself change from blinking to beaming.

“Good. Good!" rejoined Horace. "So – could you be tempted?"

"Ah. Well..." Now, Filius found himself blushing. He had certainly never _discussed_ such subjects, and for all his fine vocabulary, wasn't sure he had the words for it.

The silence stretched on a little, but oddly, it was not a particularly uncomfortable one. Filius thought about Horace; it had already crossed his mind that the man was attractive, he had to admit. Horace was good company, too; they got on well, together. Taking up the offer could certainly be... diverting. And it would be wrong to say – now he thought about it – that there were no _itches_ that he would like to have scratched...

That just left Filius with a slightly uncomfortable feeling about Xeno – but he and Xeno had never promised one another anything; far from it.

He met Horace's eyes. "I daresay I could."

"Wonderful." Horace shot him a winning smile. “There are a few things that I should make clear, though – to make sure that we’re on the same page and there’s no chance of hurt feelings. 

"Number one: I don’t do commitment – or monogamy, for that matter. Far too many fine birds in the air, I say, for that sort thing. Other people seem to thrive on it, though – which I don’t judge. Great if it works for them. And if a partner of mine finds someone they want to tie the knot with, so to speak, they have all of my blessings. It’s just not the life for me.” 

Filius nodded, taking that in. Much as he liked Horace, he didn’t feel in danger of falling hard for the man – indeed, he didn’t think he particularly had the capacity to fall hard for _anybody_ – so that seemed safe enough. 

"Number Two: I absolutely _insist_ on switching things up between the sheets from time to time. Variety is the spice of life, and all that, eh?” 

Filius' eyes widened a little; he felt… somewhere between trepidatious and excited at what he might learn. 

"Now,” Horace chuckled in self-deprecation at his little speech, "lest all of that sound terribly off-putting and serious, here are a couple of enticements. First: I will show you a bloody good time, my friend. I am a performance artist in pleasuring the male body, I promise you.” Horace wiggled his eyebrows, suggestively. Filius shivered a little; he realised his palms were clammy. “And secondly: I will be your chum for life. If nothing else, I mean that to the core.

“So, what do you say?”

Filius’ mind was reeling. All of the hairs on his body, however, were standing on end with anticipation and his blood had begun to pool with the very thought of what might happen next. “Ah. That is… I mean – yes.”

“Excellent!” declared Horace. “Now, if you would be so good as to remove your trousers and come over here such that I might taste you.”

“Here?!” Filius instinctively looked around at the empty Staff Room with its unlocked door.

“Oh yes,” replied Horace, leaning over to run a seductive finger along the inner seam of Filius robes. “Very much, here.”

*****

Following that first _memorable_ occasion, Horace invited Filius back to his own rooms.

Although he was curious and keen, the first time, he felt rather nervous. Filius realised that his own experience in such matters was largely perfunctory, and usually while drunk. He wasn't sure that he really knew what he was doing – and this wasn't something that could be readily learned from a book.

It didn't help that Horace chatted away with gusto about the prowess of his other lovers: “Oooh, gods. I say, this summer, I had the good fortune to become intimate with a young man who was for all the world like a modern-day Adonis. Six foot tall, chiselled muscles, tousled blond locks – you name it."

Filius was standing in stockinged feet, and now felt rather awkward. “I’m not much to look at, so…” He went to _Nox_ the lights.

“Poppycock!" countered Horace, with the broadest of smiles. "There is nothing more beautiful than a wizard being _himself._ Tall or short, dark or fair, slight or fat – it really doesn’t matter, as long as the gasps and cries are meant and the pleasure is real. So, m’boy, how about you recline just here, and let me strip you naked and kiss you all over.”

Deciding that he'd never learn if he wasn't prepared to be brave, Filius followed Horace's directions – and he was amply rewarded for it. 

Indeed, even from a scientific perspective, Filius had never conceived that he even _owned_ as many nerve endings as Horace managed to exploit. He sucked on Filius' toes until he squirmed, nibbled his ears and made twinges of fire and ice surge along his back. Horace attended to his neck and nipples with an agile tongue, massaging the little tummy that Filius had indeed now grown, making him feel every inch special. The man _was_ truly a master of the masculine form.

Horace was also very much true to his claim with regard to inventiveness. After a few months, Filius had been spatchcocked and spread-eagled and sucked; hoisted and heaved and had; taught and taken and teased; invited and invented and inverted. It had been exhilarating – and rather wonderful.

Ever the eager student, Filius learned how to reciprocate, too. He was fascinated by Horace’s bounteous form, and enjoyed his softness and ebullience.

“Oh yes, just a little to the left… Ohhh. There. Keep doing that. Mmm-hmm. Yes; exactly like that…”

Filius learned how to elicit cries and shivers, where to tweak, where to touch, and which magic to use. Indeed, on the latter point, he really excelled. Despite their difference in sizes, Horace was taken aback by just how exquisitely he found himself positioned, with the help of Filius' wandless charms. Even _he_ began taking notes.

All-in-all, Filius walked with a spring in his step and a newfound vigour to his days. He fancied that some of Horace's delicious _confidence_ might just have rubbed off – and although he didn't quite lounge and loll as a vision in velvet, Filius did somehow feel a wiser and more forward man – and was most content with that.

*****

"Do you have any plans for the long weekend?" Filius asked. It was a lovely spring day, blossom nodding in the trees, and the daffodils in full trumpet. They had been lovers for almost a year, now, and the easy conversation had never stopped flowing.

"Yes, it should be jolly," replied Horace. "I'm off to the continent, tomorrow – to see a couple of my other beaus."

"Ah, which ones are they?" Filius didn't feel _jealous_ exactly, but – as ever, when Horace said such things – he did his best to dispel the feeling that the conversation was a bit surreal.

"Oh, there's Palo in _Napoli_." Horace said the place in flamboyant mock-Italian. "Beautiful dark young wizard. Eyes like almonds – but which I mean both tasty, and ever-so-slightly poisonous – but the tightest little arse you've ever felt. I met him last year, when visiting friends on Capri. Not quite sure what he does in between times... but actually, not so keen to ask, if you get my drift." 

Filius nodded. He never ceased to be amazed by the breadth of Horace's social circle – even the shady parts.

"And then there's Heimlich in Bavaria," Horace continued, his eyes focussing somewhere in the middle distance. "He's just inherited the ownership of a series of glorious cake shops in the Black Forest, and he's built to make _me_ look like a starving little svelte thing, if you can imagine that. But when we're together – gods, the sheer amount of flesh-on-flesh is a power to behold. Stunning!"

"Ha," said Filius, trying to match Horace's good humour, "so you're going to leave me here, in a sensual wasteland?"

"Afraid so, old chap. But don't worry – I'll be back on Tuesday, and promise to heartily make up for it." Horace wiggled his eyebrows, and Filius laughed.

Taking a deep breath, Filius reckoned that then was a moment he could throw in the thing on his mind, without seeming too obvious. "Speaking of people around here – is that right about Professor Dumbledore? Preferring wizards, I mean?” 

Horace shrugged expansively. “So rumour has it. But, to be honest, he seems to prefer books and parchment to _any_ kind of flesh and blood. Quite the ascetic, I reckon. –But jolly good taste in robes, don't you think?"

"Mmm, yes," said Filius, affecting nonchalance, but aware all the while that he was a terrible liar.


	5. Albus

**Albus**

Falling in love with Albus Dumbledore was easy. It was knowing what to do about it that was the difficult part.

It had started off as admiration. Indeed, Filius had _always_ admired Albus, but being now in somewhat closer contact with the man had really swung those sensations into focus.

Filius was rapt as Albus addressed the Great Hall – bringing a throng of boisterous students to pin-drop silence with barely a syllable – and in awe when he guided a cantankerous party of school governors to the right conclusion without even seeming to argue. His oration was elegant and clever. Unlike Filius' own, Albus' profound statements actually sounded profound. Indeed, Albus could read out a laundry list with such sonorous grace, people would take notes and reflect on the meaning for hours afterwards.

From admiration, grew attraction. Instead of finding Albus merely empirically impressive, Filius felt more and more bound-up in that feeling; pontificating on Albus’ wonders; wanting to bask in his aura.

There was something about being in Albus’ presence – while dutifully watching and listening and supporting – that Filius found ever-more intoxicating. As a Professor, it was his job, of course, to turn up to all of the meetings, contribute, and take notes. Many considered that a dull part of the duties – but Filius found himself looking forward to the weekly staff meetings, just so he could admire Albus at work; to watch him weave together the disparate personalities and factions and command the room with such gravitas and magnetism.

After a while, from attraction grew a hopeless kind of hope. No longer content to allow Albus’ magnificence simply to wash over him, Filius found himself wanting to feature in that story; on Filius’ side, the connection was becoming increasingly personal. 

Being an intelligent chap, Filius knew full well just how preposterous that all was. Indeed, in one part of his brain, Filius could commentate on all of the silly, infatuated things he found himself doing, and give himself a stern talking-to for such distractedness. Amazingly, though, the other part brazenly carried on, regardless – and Filius realised with something between chagrin, self-deprecating amusement and indulgence, that it was the latter part that appeared to be in charge, these days.

Filius dwelt upon the occasional, treasured times when Albus addressed him personally. It might be something as simple as, “Good afternoon, Professor Flitwick,” said cheerily as he passed Filius on the seventh floor amid a horde of students, or perhaps just a, “Would you be so kind as to pass the caramel sauce, Filius?” as they all dined on high table. 

Even though he wouldn’t quite admit it to himself, Filius had started to engineer his day such that he might maximise the chances of these random encounters. There was a reasonable probability that Albus would be walking back from a meeting on the seventh floor after morning break, for example – and even though the order of precedence dictated that a new teacher would never sit next to the Headmaster at dinner, there was a decent chance that Albus would be waiting in the combination room for Apollyon to ring the gong about five minutes before the meal formally began. Filius would make a point of also turning up early, and trying to have something interesting to say – perhaps about a book he had been reading, or some unusual happening in that day’s lessons. Albus always responded with genial attentiveness – as he did, of course, when conversing with any member of staff. But that didn’t stop Filius from bathing in every word; he gathered up all of Albus’ quips and questions and quirks, and replayed them in his mind as he went to sleep that night, fluttering embellishment overtaking truth as he drifted away.

Then, of course, there was Albus' very _voice_. Long, low and rich, it reverberated in Filius' whole body; caressing, warming, exciting. Filius fancied he could happily listen to those tones forever, alternately soothing him like a summer breeze and winding into his loins as a music to heat his blood. 

As longing blossomed into desire, Filius imagined that beautiful voice speaking to him, privately. Words reserved just for him; wise and clever and intimate. His Ravenclaw imagination took on the task with abandon. Filius had always prided himself on rather epic daydreams, and now there was fuel for them like never before: meeting Albus by chance in a corridor and being invited back to his rooms for a drink; buying a Christmas present for Albus that he really liked; going on a conference abroad with Albus and having to share a room...

In daydreams, that gorgeous voice had a face and body attached, and Filius found himself thinking that Albus was pretty much physical perfection. The man was so tall and imposing, with straight shoulders and long legs with which he strode about the corridors with decision and purpose. His features were finely aristocratic and meltingly handsome; cheekbones high, aquiline nose, and full lips that Filius found himself aching to kiss. Above all, Albus' clear blue eyes began to appear in Filius' reverie: penetrating, promising, tantalising.

Indeed, Filius sometimes found himself just gazing dreamily in Albus' direction, forgetting to take in the substance of whatever was being discussed. After a moment, he'd catch himself, and get his quill moving again, on the double. The last thing he wanted to do was to make a bad impression; if he'd been hired for anything at all, Filius reflected, it was because Albus reckoned him to be good at Charms, and bright enough to do a generally good job. Now would definitely _not_ be the moment to prove those assumptions wrong.

As time progressed, Filius reflected that his notion – held just a year before –that he hadn’t the capacity to feel like this about anyone was now rather shocking. Admiring; yearning for; being utterly wrapped-up in the thought of Albus came as easily as Hippogriffs to the air or Centaurs to the stars. In fact, it was as if a whole latent part of Filius – an entire bank and swathe of feeling – had awoken from deep slumber, and demanded to be known. It felt absolutely integral to who and what he was, and now Filius couldn’t imagine existing without it.

With his mind a morass of pining and pipedreams, Filius found that he and Horace were exercising the ‘benefits’ part of ‘friends with benefits’ less and less. It wasn’t a conscious decision to tail-off those proceedings, more that his thoughts and his nerve-endings were increasingly elsewhere. 

Horace wasn’t in the slightest grumpy about it; indeed, he seemed to find the change in Filius’ behaviour most amusing. “Sooooo, who’s the lucky wizard?” he teased one evening, as they were sharing the last of the Staff Room port.

“I’m sorry – what?” Filius could feel himself blushing.

Horace chuckled. “Oh, don’t play coy with me, my friend. You’ve been waltzing around like a wide-eyed mooncalf for the past few months. I happen to be cheerfully immune to such afflictions, but that doesn’t mean to say I can’t spot them a mile off in other chaps, what? So, who is it? You can tell _me_ now, can’t you?”

Filius gave an almighty sigh, but also started to laugh at what was apparently his own utter transparency. After what felt like such a long time holding in his own fascinations and fantasies, it almost felt good to have them recognised in the real world. “Oh, I daresay it’s hopeless,” he demurred, “not someone who would ever have cause to think of me.”

“Mmmmm.” Horace sucked some air through a mouthful of port, considering that. “So why not move on to pastures new?”

“If only it were so easy!” Filius rejoined. “But, well… he’s just so…” He ran aground there: every word with which he considered finishing the sentence was either so hyperbolic it sounded like a cliché, or was utterly insufficient to do his meaning justice.

Nevertheless, Horace seemed to get the drift. “It looks like you’ve got it bad, my friend. All I hope is that this mystery man is worthy of you.”

*****

"And that brings us to the final item on this afternoon's agenda." As Albus alluded to that opaquely-notated point, the circle of faces showed mild interest; whatever this was, it was new.

"I have been asked to host and participate in an exhibition duelling contest," he continued, and eyebrows around the table raised. "Now, as you may be aware, this is not the sort of request I would usually consider – but in this case, a corporate body has proposed to make a _very_ sizeable donation to Hogwarts in return for the event. We could endow twenty Muggle-born scholarships, for example." There was some nodding and mmm-hmming among the staff. 

"What I will need, however – and this is primarily why I raise the matter today – is a duelling partner. Any volunteers?"

At that point, the atmosphere in the staff room changed from gentle boredom to shiftiness tinged with panic.

"Oh gosh! I'm so sorry; my latest batch of Amortentia must be about to boil over," exclaimed Horace, making for the door.

“It will be actual duelling, will it?" asked Herbert, "Not simulated in a theatrical manner?" When Albus clarified that yes, all of the spells and parries would be genuine – and strong shields would be erected to protect the audience from any unintentional cross-fire – Herbert shrunk so much in his seat he looked like a mandrake resisting being pulled from its pot.

An awkward silence settled on the room. Even Wilhelmina, never apparently nervous, avoided eye-contact; she managed to find something of incredible interest in her two lines of meeting notes.

Throughout these exchanges, a veritable duel was being fought in Filius’ mind. On the one hand, the idea of getting to do a project together with Albus was so exciting, his heart was doing somersaults. On the other hand – and this was a significant distractor – he feared that this _particular_ project would result in him getting embarrassed beyond measure, beaten to a pulp, and possibly sacked. He wasn’t sure which in that series of events would happen first, but none of the combinations would be pretty.

The silence stretched on, and Filius pressed his fingernails into his palm and bit his lip as the internal battle raged… and then the hatstall Griffindorishness won out: "I'll do it!" 

Heads swivelled right around to face Filius, eyebrows climbing high and earnest advisory shakes of the head firing in his direction. Albus beamed at him, though, and that was all the affirmation that Filius needed. 

"Excellent! We start our preparation this evening."

*****

They met after hours in the Great Hall, which had been cleared to make way for a long, raised platform.

"The audience will want to see the impression of opponents who are more-or-less equally matched,” explained Albus, after repeating his thanks to Filius for being game enough to represent the school in this unusual endeavour. “So, let's start with practicing your defensive magic. I'll throw hexes from over there" – he waved at the other end of the platform – "for you to shield – but don't worry; for now, I'll throw them short, such that the force will be pretty much gone by the time they reach you."

They assumed their places. Filius gripped his wand tight, willing himself not to make any silly mistakes. As he had intimated, though, Albus started off with all of the standard stuff: conjured arrows; jets of water and ice; long lassoing ropes. Although a mere _Protego_ would have been adequate to repel the lot, Filius decided to have a bit of fun with his defences: he tied the ropes into elaborate bows; split the arrows in mid-air; and returned a large conjured martini to Albus, mixed from a little of the water and served over liberal amounts of the ice.

As the drink floated down into Albus’ hand, he grinned and chuckled, and the sound make Filius’ heart do the tango. "Excellent, excellent!” He took a generous slurp, walking forwards while gesturing ‘cheers’. “Oh, that really is very good. Now; time for you to attack."

"Alright," said Filius. "And again, I'll cast the hexes short of the target, yes?"

"No, no," smiled Albus. "Full force; don't worry about that. I want to see all that you've got."

Filius nodded and walked back to his end of the platform. He ran through the battery of charms that he had at his disposal.

Professionally speaking, Filius’ mind was organised something akin to a library. Everything he had learned was filed away in a logical manner, with plenty of handy cross-references and index cards. On this occasion, he was working through his vast catalogue of charms in more-or-less geographical manner. As a warm-up, he began with all of the typical British-learned magic, and Albus extinguished these attacks with ease. Then Filius upped the pace – nothing terribly unusual, but throwing two, three, even four at a time, with a parallelised form of casting that he had invented a few years ago.

Albus looked a little hotter on his toes than he had perhaps expected, darting here and there to parry and shield, eyes twitching as Filius’ spells came hard and fast. They continued like that for some minutes, Filius’ repertoire never nearing an end and Albus’ defences never faltering – even though he did seem to be getting a little warm in his scooting-around, and was concentrating intently on one incoming hex, then the next, then the next.

Retracing his journeys, Filius then ventured South, casting a rather vigorous plate-smashing charm from Greece, and an amusing – if rather daft – little number from Sicily, where strings of sticky spaghetti hurtle through the air and wrap one’s unwitting opponent like a meatball. That made Albus laugh. Heading into Africa, Filius conjured the cry of a hyena and the blinding light of a Serengeti noon. Albus brought about a black cloud to prevent him from squinting – which saved him just in time from the flock of vultures that Filius had just sent across the hall, descending upon their prey like carrion. Next, Filius skipped across to South America, and produced a tiny but deadly poison dart that whipped through the space, almost impossible to spot. Albus stopped it just in the nick of time, and then barely had a second to react to the rockfall that appeared from the enchanted ceiling; a booby-trapped Aztec tomb in full crumble. He fired upwards, and the boulders were pulverised into heaps of harmless sand. Continuing onwards, Filius employed magical snakes from wise men of the Rio Negro, sparks of fire borrowed from Pukwudgies, and a Shamanic charm from the Inuit that saw a killer whale surface in the centre of the duelling platform. Albus seemed a little taken-aback at that, but swiftly put it to bed again under a smooth sheet of conjured ice. Next Filius went for a Pacific typhoon, tossed together with Samurai swords, mercilessly twirling and darting in the whipped wind and rain. Albus melted them down into a neat little ingot, and then quenched the storm with a hot breeze from the ceiling – just in time for Filius to follow along with an enormous ball of wasabi heading straight for Albus’ face, which was deflected into the sand, all but for a tiny smear on his left eyebrow. Striding across into China, Filius concentrated hard to conjure one of his favourite – and most challenging – charms. The Patroneal dragon was magnificent – sinuous, fire-breathing, and, as Filius had invested some of his own Patronus into casting it, rather difficult to dispel. Albus busied himself with shielding against the burst of flames, while Filius instructed the beast’s body to quietly curl around, extending a whip-like tail around Albus’ ankles and knees. At the perfect moment, the creature tightened its grasp and – bam.

Albus collapsed backwards and held up his wand in the sign for surrender. 

"Oh my goodness! I'm really sorry, I..." Filius banished the charm in an instant, and rushed forwards to where Albus was awkwardly flopped on the floor.

But Albus was laughing. Even as he rubbed at a sore patch where he had landed and nursed a slightly grazed knee, he shook his head to himself, and grinned. Still winded, Albus staggered to his feet, and then looked at Filius as if seeing him for the first time.

Those wonderful eyes were sparkling like crystal caverns in the moonlight, and Filius felt giddy with the knowledge that the sparkle was entirely for him. When Albus spoke, it was slow and deliberate: “That, my friend, was _extraordinary._ ” He clasped Filius’ hand in both of his own. 

Delighting in the feeling of Albus’ touch, Filius felt himself blushing to the tips of his moustaches. He couldn’t conjure a coherent response, so just smiled back.

"Do come back to my rooms for tea,” said Albus, clearly deciding that no more practice was needed that night. “You can tell me all about those fantastic charms of yours."

*****

Chatting with Albus – properly, one-to-one, and for hours at a time –was every bit as wonderful as Filius had imagined it would be. _No,_ he corrected himself, _even more so._

They talked about Charms and Potions and Ancient Runes. Geology and Astronomy and creatures of the deep. History and philosophy and literature. People, places, cultures and language. Cooking and gardening, and silly games, and sometimes – with exactly the same verve – of really nothing at all.

Filius had never met someone before who was as _interested_ in everything – _anything and everything_ – as he was. Their conversations could go on for hours, one thought linking to the next and the next and the next. It was utterly addictive; it was like coming home. 

Luckily, that first evening of conversation turned into another and another – until Filius was invited up to Albus' rooms for tea after dinner a couple of times per week. It was _very nearly_ – but crucially, not quite – Filius' dreams come true.

Albus had such fascinating ideas on the very essence and origin of magic that Filius had never heard before. What _was_ the essential difference between a Wizard and a Muggle, anyway? Could one, some day in the far future, turn a Muggle into a Wizard? Could there be a spell for that? Could one transfer magic from one being to another? Was there some god or goddess of the universe who created magic in the first place? Could she be called upon to channel magic to where it was required? Filius felt as if he had been through some glorious paradigm shift every time he left Albus' drawing room of an evening, absolutely buzzing with thoughts and inspiration and enthusiasm.

Filius also noticed that Albus changed as they talked. He always began in the stately, proprietorial mode in which he had conducted all of that day's business – but over time, he relaxed and unravelled, putting aside his formal hat, and allowing himself the option of sitting more comfortably in his chair. His voice, too, became more animated. Albus' opening exchanges were always in a Headmasterly, measured timbre – but as the conversation went on, those gorgeous dark-chocolate tones dived and swooped across the syllables, sounding somehow freer; playful, even.

The duelling exhibition came and went. At the contest itself, _neither_ of them held back in their manoeuvres, but in the end, Filius won the day with a Peruvian Pseudospider-hindweaver. Albus seemed much more cheerful about losing than he would have done about winning, shaking Filius' hand heartily at the end, and bowing to him on stage with elaborate deference. That could have been the moment when Albus began to consider them in some way equal, Filius thought. It was incredibly helpful.

\- Incredibly helpful in one way, that is, but paradoxical in another: Filius knew that one reason he was so smitten with Albus was that he had finally found someone who he really revered intellectually. Filius had gone through life being a bit – or a lot – brighter than everybody else. Not that he thought he was _superior_ to other people – no, Filius saw worthy merit and good humour in those from all walks of cerebral life – but he had always felt he had to be somehow reserved and responsible, shepherding his precious mental cargo. It was as if he couldn't have dedicated himself absolutely to another person; as if there had always been some gap or caveat; something lacking.

But now, as the first time he was with someone who was probably a bit cleverer than him, Filius was utterly lost; mesmerised; melted; enthralled. He felt all of that reserve drain away, and was left simply open wide, a blank target for Cupid's arrows. He felt like a child; a puppy. Wide-eyed and willing for any one of Albus' utterances or favours.

Indeed, he had heard people claiming to be in love say that they were 'devoted'. Filius had always considered it just a turn of phrase – but now he understood with every fibre of his being what _devotion_ felt like. It was not just a thought or a feeling, but an entire physical sensation. Albus was the very centre of his world, and if there were some religious vow one could take to prove how one felt, he would have done it.

The months passed, and the evenings they spent together became a regular and cherished part of Filius' routine. The rest of the week seemed grey and lifeless in comparison to those wonderful hours spent in Albus' company. It was always fresh and exciting, and as time went on – and Filius was _sure_ he wasn't just imagining this – tinged with just a hint of frisson.

It began with repartee that was ever-so-slightly flirtatious. They were talking about the awkwardness of knowing when one was supposed to dance at a ball, and Albus said, with a warm smile, "I'm sure a handsome young wizard like you would never be troubled by that difficulty." Then, there was the time when Filius managed to say that he liked the colour of Albus' hair, and Albus – far from his usual collected self – looked rather abashed as he acknowledged the compliment. 

They had started to exchange tiny touches – almost unnoticeable, but for the fact that every nerve in Filius' body was finely attuned to Albus' presence. Lingering for just a moment when passing a cup of tea; brushing ever-so-slightly closer than necessary when holding a door; sitting on the sofa so that their thighs barely touched through their robes. Such nearly-almost contact made Filius' twilight hours even more enflamed, if that were possible. It was so tantalising to be almost unbearable.

It was a long time in coming – given the number of hours they had spent talking about anything and everything – but Filius and Albus shared some of their personal histories with one another. The private things, that is – because everyone knew the wonders of their curricula vitae; Albus', especially. 

With faltering words and more caution than even he had expected, Filius told Albus about _that_ part of his bloodline. About the family rift, the inheritance and the secret that he had been holding onto for years, advised by everyone who was close to him not to let it be known. Albus didn't seem at all surprised or shocked about it, though; he just nodded and smiled, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. In turn, Albus mentioned a rift with his brother, who lived in the village – but he didn't go into details. Filius felt it wasn't proper to ask.

As time went on, it became more and more difficult for Filius to say goodnight to Albus at the end of each evening. He felt drawn to stay there; to touch; to linger... and if he wasn't mistaken, that feeling wasn't entirely one-sided. There was something about the way he had caught Albus looking at him – usually out of the corner of his eye, when sipping a cup of tea, or contemplating his next move at chess that was... interested? Hungry, maybe? Hopeful? 

At first, Filius scolded himself for thinking it – people in hopeless love think the most fanciful things, after all – but on close and careful observation, he was _sure_ it was real.

He watched carefully, making a thrilled little note of each occasion there was _something_ there, between them. After thousands of careful looks and pensive smiles and hands meeting over the teapot – and even the occasional whisper of Albus' beard across his cheek – Filius felt that something within him was going to burst if he didn't plight his troth and ready himself for the consequences. He felt so ready, so desperate, so enamoured, he just _had_ to say something.

The opportunity came late one evening, when they had just finished playing chess. Albus had won, but it had been a close-run match.

"Thank you, as always, for your fine company," said Albus, gleaming at him from his seat across the coffee table. They were each ensconced in an overstuffed armchair, little glasses of sherry alongside the chessboard.

"Not at all," Filius started, and then realised that it was his moment. If his heart could have been any more aflutter than usual in Albus' presence, it was then. "In fact, it's my pleasure," he continued. Filius took a deep breath. "The truth is, I like you, enormously."

Albus smiled at him in a friendly kind of way that approximated to 'I like you too, old thing'. In his eyes, though, was growing a wary look; somehow shuttered.

Taking another deep breath, Filius decided to try again. He felt he might honestly go mad if he let the chance slip away, now. "That is, I mean to say..." he started, and felt the tension in the room wind up to screaming-point. "I like you _far more_ than the usual kind of liking someone." He felt breathless, and saw Albus' smile had fallen away. "I really mean, that is, that I lo–"

"–Don't!" Albus lurched over and collapsed into a heap in his chair, his face buried in his hands.

Filius was stunned, his heart pounding. He just stared at Albus petrified there, refusing to meet his gaze. The bottom was dropping out of his world, and Filius had that creeping, crushing sense that he knew exactly why.

“I see." He swallowed hard. "It's because I’m part…” Filius couldn’t quite bring himself to complete the sentence, but his meaning was clear. How dreadful, he thought, that his cursed heritage was holding him back now, from the very thing that he wanted more than anything he had ever felt or yearned for, or–

“–Oh gods, no!” Albus exclaimed, springing to life again. His face was flushed with hurt and sympathy, now looking Filius straight in the eyes. “Oh my dear, my dear. Not for a second. You are the most perfect thing, and I…”

His hope lifted up once more from the gutter in which it had lain just seconds before, Filius stood and crossed the short distance to where Albus was sitting. “Then please. Let me. Let us…”

Albus sighed, and looked down at the floor. His brow was furrowed and his eyes closed in pain – but he couldn’t seem to quite move away from Filius. Filius – as he stood just inches from Albus’ troubled face, his breath ghosting across Albus’ cheek… and Albus seemed to bathe in the feeling, even as he resisted it; something within him was hurting and melting, both and together. 

“We could never breathe a word of this,” Albus began, his words an uncharacteristic tremor. “It wouldn’t be proper. Besides, you deserve someone younger, someone better, who you can settle down with, not a spent old fool like–”

“–No.” Filius said it very calmly, but he had never been more sure of a thing in his life. “I want _you._ ”

Met then with silence, slowly, carefully, Filius moved closer to cup Albus’ face with a steady hand. He pressed a kiss to Albus’ lips, gentle but sure. Albus froze, and somewhere within his breast, he let out a wrenching sob. He did not, however, move away – his body caught in suspended animation as some complex battle seemed to rage within his mind. Slowly, almost against his will, his mouth yielded and he returned Filius’ kiss – hesitant at first, but then with heat and clamour, like a drowning man.

When they broke apart, Albus shook his head a little, gasping. “I am weak.” There was no venom in his words.

Filius smiled at him and pressed another kiss to those glistening lips. “Then let me make you stronger.”

*****

Those first few days were touch-and-go for Filius' relationship. Albus retreated to his own rooms every evening, and Filius had to visit him every evening unannounced, each time being received in a way that almost failed to acknowledge the progress they had made the night before. Albus was not unkind, nor did he reject Filius' presence; he just seemed wide-eyed and strangely frozen, somehow willing and unable. He was like a wild animal who desperately wanted to come in from the cold, but didn't know how. Filius was delighted to be the one to coax him.

"Hello! I brought a book from my travels in China," was Filius' opening gambit on day two – and Albus seemed to relax, allowing him over the threshold.

They chatted, and Albus thawed again, perhaps somehow convincing himself that it was alright. They laughed, and gossiped and – little by little without such hesitation – they kissed.

The kisses started again meekly; gentle and unsure. Over time they became lingering and languid. Filius was very careful not to hurry things. 

One evening, though, he pressed a kiss to the junction of Albus' neck and collarbone and was rewarded with a sharp hiss and hands that clutched him tighter. Meticulously, Filius slipped a row of buttons from their silken buttonholes, and made a trail of kisses down Albus' chest and belly. It was slow and deliberate; he listened carefully to the hitches and whimpers in Albus' breathing and felt the flutter of his diaphragm beneath soft caresses and wandering fingertips.

When Filius smoothed his lips around Albus, he was awash by both the bliss of love and – as his clever tongue prized moans and cries from Albus' throat – the thrill of power over this very great man. Radiant. Perfect. All his; man's greatest treasure. He could never have conceived of being so happy.

*****

They lay in Albus' purple-draped bed, panting and drained and delirious.

Albus gave an exhausted sort of laugh. “That, my dear, _beyond_ extraordinary.”

Filius basked in the moment, and spooned up to Albus' side. He had deployed every trick that he had learned from those greater hedonists, Xeno and Horace, plus a few of his own devising. It had been absolutely glorious.

Filius didn't ask about it, but he very much got the impression that he was the more experienced of the pair: every time that look of stilled unsureness had crossed Albus features, Filius had kissed and gentled it way until Albus was hot and pliable enough for him to introduce something new: a caress here; a finger there; a questing tongue in between.

Much to Filius' delight, Albus had thawed considerably – and, at last, he had been permitted access to all parts of that beautiful body. The fact that Albus was considerably older only added to the allure. He delighted in tracing small scars across strong muscles or finding a sheen of silver that shone like the moon in Albus' stunning red hair.

The difference in their heights was something that Filius used to his advantage; together with his rather creative use of magic, Filius had somehow managed to be everywhere at once – while Albus had writhed and mewled in blissful surprise and then had finally _given in_ to pleasure. He had thrown his head back exposing a tender throat, with eyes screwed shut and hands that gripped Filius like a survivor from a shipwreck. Filius reckoned the sight would be etched into his mind for the rest of his life – and he certainly wouldn't have it any other way. He couldn't conceive of anything more beautiful, or more beloved.

Indeed, much as Filius had enjoyed earthly pursuits in the past – and he did have a great fondness for both Xeno and Horace, in their ways – being with Albus, thus, felt... so very different. It was the contrast between fun and fundamental; pleasurable and profound; reaching out with his body and reaching out with his soul. Indeed, when Filius joined with Albus, he had the absurd notion that his very spirit was going forth to live with this man; this idol; this sweetheart, lover, god.

Filius moved slightly, laying his head on Albus' chest. He could hear Albus' heartbeat, still vigorous, even as he was drifting gently into a boneless sleep. Filius hugged him tight, and knew with all his own heart that he would never want to let go.


	6. Albus

It was a curious thing to carry on a relationship in secret, and for it to remain so, perhaps forever. To never hold hands in public; to never receive a joint invitation; to be just colleagues on Christmas day.

Although he was nothing but delighted with being allowed access to Albus' evenings and his bed, Filius did try to broach the subject a few times. He would dearly have loved to introduce Albus to his parents and friends – all of whom sporadically wondered whether Filius was going to _meet someone nice_ and _settle down_ ; they had become a little more insistent about it, of late. As far as Filius was concerned, he had already done both of those things, and so wanted to share his pride and happiness with those he loved. 

At first, Filius was hopeful that if he just let things evolve slowly, Albus would relent. That he would see there was nothing to be afraid of – not really – and that most people were far more reasonable and accepting than he gave them credit for.

Unfortunately, Filius' gentle suggestions of a joint outing or a quiet word to his parents yielded no such result. In fact, the topic seemed almost dangerous. 

It was as if there lurked in Albus a huge sea of worry barely held back, threatening to flood and sink all of the good things that they had made and found together; as if keeping it secret let Albus somehow allow himself to accept what they had together at _all._ As if, maybe it wasn't too real if no one knew about it, so then he couldn't be blamed. Couldn't be found guilty. Wouldn't have to deny himself their present happiness.

For Filius, though, it was real. Very real. In fact, being with Albus was the most central thing to his life; everything else almost became cast in sepia tones; a background, a sideshow to the multicolour glory of being with Albus.

Filius never received an explanation, past the usual claims about their relative positions within the school; he just saw the haunted look in Albus' eyes. Albus simply shook his head and said, "You deserve better than me." Filius always assured him that there _was_ no better, and then the subject was dropped again, until the next time.

In darker moments, when it felt harder to always sneak about and be ignored in public, Filius wondered whether there was someone else: some other man or woman who waited patiently, as he did, for the nights when they would have Albus' company and his heat. He even asked, once. The quiet little response came with an expression of such desolate sadness, it scared him. Filius never asked again.

Sometimes, Albus sobbed in his sleep. Filius tried to comfort him, but it was no use; whatever hunted thoughts were preying there were buried far too deep for quiet shushing and gentle hands to reach. Albus would wake with a pained gasp, and then always assure Filius it was nothing; just a silly nightmare. Filius never felt that he should press.

One day, Xeno wrote to say that he had met a wonderful witch in Algiers, and they were coming home to get married. Filius was invited, and welcome to bring a guest.

"It's in a little village called Ottery St Catchpole," Filius explained. "It will be a small affair, but quite friendly, I'm sure. Partners are invited, and I was wondering whether... that is... Would you come with me?" He looked up at Albus imploringly. They were standing in Albus' rooms at the end of a long day, dark circles painted under both their eyes.

Albus gave a tremendous sigh, and crossed his arms. His long sleeves fell like some mighty waterfall from a cliff edge. "Filius, as we have discussed many times, I simply can't – as Headmaster – be seen to be in a relationship with one of my teachers over the others." He paused, and looked at Filius seriously. "Now, this state of affairs, quite reasonably, is apparently not acceptable to you. And given that I shouldn't be doing this in the _first_ place, I really should just–"

"–No! Please." Filius' eyes began to well with tears as panic seized him. He felt immobilised and desperate.

They looked at each other and the stalemate with sad eyes. The silence stretched on.

Then, Filius' problem-solving brain snapped into motion: "I could leave here, and go to do something else." He couldn't immediately think what 'something else' would be, but he was sure it would be worth it. "I'd come here in the evenings, and then we could..." But the words died as he saw the look of finality on Albus' face.

"Filius, you are my best teacher." Albus' words were steady now, almost dispassionate. "If I let you leave the school on my account, Hogwarts should rightly depose me as Headmaster."

He almost cried, 'Then let's _both_ leave!' but Filius thought better of it. He would never want to ask Albus to choose between him and his own position. Filius persuaded himself that was out of gallantry and respect for Albus' great achievements – and maybe it was. Deep down, though, he knew it was also out of fear at what the real answer would be.

Instead, then, he forced a smile, and blotted a handkerchief at the corners of his eyes. "I'll bring you back some fudge from Devon."

Albus returned the smile. "I'd like that." He opened up his arms, and Filius accepted the embrace with relief; his legs shook as he could move them once again.

Albus gave a tense sigh as he stroked Filius' hair. "Please don't prod at my hypocrisy, my dear. Lest it rear up and bite us both."

Filius vowed to himself never to mention it again.

*****

"Some excellent news arrived today," Albus was sitting by his desk when Filius visited that evening, still sifting through paperwork.

"Mmmm?" Filius took up a seat and started to make some tea with his wand.

"We've had an excellent applicant for the Transfiguration position. You remember Minerva McGonagall, don't you? Of course you do – you were Head Boy and Head Girl together."

At that, Filius couldn't help feeling three things at once. First, the straightforward notion that it would be nice to see Minerva – they hadn't caught up for ages. Indeed, letters had dwindled to a couple a year or so, since his travels and her gruelling job at the Ministry. Second and third, though, were those mixed sensations of embarrassment and eroticism he experienced whenever reminded that he used to be Albus' pupil. It was something that Filius tried not to think about too much... unless he very much _did_ want to think about it... and then, ahem, that was a different matter altogether. With all those things going on in his mind, all he managed was an, "Oh, good."

Albus shot him a wicked smile. _Gods, why does that man have to be so handsome,_ and _so perceptive_ , Filius thought.

*****

Minerva came for interview shortly afterwards and triumphed. Welcoming her into the Staff Room, Filius was delighted to hear all her news, and share his in return – leaving out entirely the whole matter of his relationship with Albus, of course. Luckily, Minerva didn't seem minded to press for his romantic stories.

For her part, Minerva seemed relieved to have escaped the Ministry. It had been both punishing and boring, Filius learned – long hours casting draining spells, but never deviating from set protocol. She was delighted to be able to focus on Transfiguration, again – and creative Transfiguration, at that. Minerva was absolutely bubbling with incantations that she wanted to invent and adapt – the Animagus formula, for one thing, and a whole new syllabus for the students based more firmly around the fundamental principles of Gamp's Law.

"And Professor Dumbledore – well _Albus,_ as he says I should get used to calling him – seems terribly excited about it, too," she related. "We've been owling back and forth ever since I got the job. He told me that it's such a joy to have someone passionate about his favourite subject here at Hogwarts, and said we could work together on some of the new Transfigurations I'm planning. Indeed, he's so keen, we're spending tomorrow evening in my new classroom together!"

Filius was happy for her, of course. But down his spine tingled the cold finger of an unfamiliar and unattractive feeling: jealousy.

*****

Things developed just as Minerva had said for the next few months. She did well with the students – although her classroom manner did seem to be a bit too strict for Filius' taste – and even better with Albus.

Filius noticed his own evenings spent with Albus diminish in number – and when they did come about, there was always a late start, after extra hours in the Transfiguration classroom. He began to feel that whatever interest he had piqued in the Headmaster with his duelling prowess had now been eclipsed by the intrigues of the newest recruit. If Filius could have mustered a sense of indignance, that may have helped – but in truth, he was simply terrified at losing the very thing he held most dear.

On one such evening, Filius was standing helplessly on the rug in the centre of Albus’ quarters. They had installed a secret passageway between Albus’ rooms and Ravenclaw Tower that was charmed to open at the agreed time of their meeting – so there was no risk that Filius had misremembered the promised arrangement. He looked at the door, willing it to open, and pressed his fingernails nervously into his palms.

After what felt like hours, the front door did open. Albus swept in, carrying a large bundle of books and papers; he took one look at Filius’ expression, and his face fell. “Ah. I seem to be late.”

Filius crossed his arms, and willed back the tears. "Oh, don't worry," he replied snippily, "I suppose you've been busy with your _girlfriend_." 

He hated himself for saying it, as soon as the words had left his tongue. Filius was not accustomed to feeling petulant. Albus seemed to magnify his every emotion, though, for good or for bad.

Albus gave an almighty sigh, and collapsed onto the sofa. Filius stayed standing, looking studiedly away. "Come here, mmmm?" said Albus, gently. He beckoned in Filius' direction.

Filius resisted for a moment – mainly for show – but then collapsed on Albus' lap, his face pressed into the purple velvet. He still felt a ball of nerves, but having Albus' arms around him was better. _Please don’t let me go._

They stayed like that for some while, quietly holding one another, Filius trying not to cry.

"I'm sorry." Albus’ voice hummed low against Filius’ forehead.

The words were simple, but Filius was astounded to hear them; the inscrutable, wonderful, Albus Dumbledore did not _apologise._ Of course, he would make profuse and gallant concessions if he were, say, to bump into someone in a corridor – but admitting fault for some actual, pre-meditated act? Unthinkable. Filius didn't know how to react.

"I think I've been somewhat carried away," Albus continued. "I haven't had the chance to do some research in Transfiguration for ages, and well, Minerva is very enthusiastic about the subject."

Filius felt so very inadequate at that. "I guess I'm not good enough, then."

"Oh, Darling.” Albus sighed again, and hugged him tighter. “That is so incredibly far from the truth.

“It was thoughtless of me. You deserve better.”

At that, Filius couldn’t hold back the tears any longer. He shook, silently. “So I suppose this is another of your attempts to end what we have? But for real, this time.”

From his curled position, Filius couldn’t see Albus’ face, but he felt Albus’ hands tighten upon his shoulders, as if taken aback. “…No?”

Filius looked up, his eyes damp and dewy. “‘No?’”

“No,” confirmed Albus, his brow furrowed. “Unless that is what you want, of course, which I would entirely understand, given that– “

Albus didn’t get to finish his sentence, because Filius crushed their lips together, desperate in affirmation and relief.

“That’s the last thing I would want,” choked Filius. “I’m just worried that I bore you – now that Minerva…”

Albus shook his head. “You, my dear, are the most fascinating person I know. 

“While Minerva is a fine witch, I’m sure – it is the academic pursuit of my subject that has caused my unfair neglect of our time together, not the company of another person, _per se_. Although I seek no excuse – perhaps I may play upon your kind Ravenclaw credentials for a little understanding in that regard?”

Filius considered. Of course, it did tally with his own many, many hours spent in the library, over the years. “Really?” He heard himself sounding needy, but decided there was little that could be done about it, at this point.

“Really,” said Albus, definitively. “Indeed, perhaps I could prey upon your patience tomorrow evening to discuss a new Transfiguration I got half-way through? I know it’s not your favourite magic, but–”

“–Of course,” said Filius with equal assertion. “...As long as you actually _want_ to talk about it with me, that is...”

“I do,” confirmed Albus, smirking slightly now at how the conversation was going around in circles. "–And you're the one I would very much like to ravish me this evening, if I may be so bold?"

Filius sniffed slightly, and tried to wrap his self-assurance back around himself, in layers. “That could probably be arranged.”

*****

"Let's travel somewhere, together. Away from here, we could be a _real_ couple." The idea was so simple, Filius didn't know why he hadn't thought of it, before.

Albus shook his head. "But I'll still be recognised. Ever since the battle of '45–"

"–Then wear a glamour."

Albus paused, and furrowed his brow. "International travel is very expensive. Especially for Express fares on a long weekend, and I–"

"–Don't worry about that. I'll pay for it."

"I couldn't _possibly_ let you–"

"–You could.” Filius mustered his most commanding tone. “And indeed, any further refusal on that point would simply be putting your pride above my happiness." 

Albus took a short breath, seemingly taken aback by Filius' forthrightness. But then his eyes found Filius' longing gaze, and a gentle smile crept across his features. "You are as eloquent as you are generous, my dear. I honestly don't deserve you."

They walked hand-in-hand down the Champs-Élysées, and floated together in a gondola on the canals of Venice. They swam in chilly mountain lakes, towelling one another with warming charms afterwards; they massaged sun oil into each other's skin on lazy tropical beaches.

Filius took Albus to his favourite places from his Institute years: the hilltops; the temples; the little villages where time had stood still. They read runes together and had long debates about the origin and development of magic; Filius was glad that he had handed-in his thesis years ago, because with all the new avenues Albus was suggesting, it could have turned into a life’s work.

They dined in elegant restaurants, on city rooftops and in streets busy and bustling with spices and vendors’ cries. They watched the opera, Indian dance ceremonies, and boomerang contests – and sometimes, with great joy, they just _played_. Filius and Albus built a snowman under the Northern Lights, whimsical charm after whimsical charm making him smiling and dapper; they brought home pet pygmy puffs from a Tibetan zoo; and they gambolled about on a deserted island, with nothing between their skin and the stars.

These were simply the happiest times Filius could ever recall. Indeed, although he had travelled much before, sampling the world with Albus somehow felt different. Doing _anything_ with Albus felt different, Filius supposed; he would even enjoy cleaning the Potions laboratory, if Albus were at his side. On his previous world voyage, Filius had never much indulged in _leisure_ before – with his focus now on the delight of his company even more than on the beautiful places they explored, he saw those places in a fresh and wonderful light. Memories formed around ‘their’ restaurants, strolls and guesthouses. Filius would buy a postcard of each place they visited, and inscribe the date; he didn’t care if Albus teased him for his sentimentality.

Every morning abroad, Albus would ask, "Who would you like me to be, today?" 

Filius always answered, "Yourself," before acceding to suggest some glamour for the day. He always chose a mature gentleman – which was not just out of consideration for Albus' feelings, but Filius found, it was actually his own preference. There was something about life experience that he just found delicious. Usually, the glamours needed were fairly superficial, anyway; Albus changed the colour and style of his hair and beard, and maybe altered the tint of his skin; he reckoned that most people notice only such details. It seemed he was right; in all their travels, the Great Albus Dumbledore was never recognised.

When they returned to the safety of their hotel room after a long day exploring, Filius would always lift the glamour, and reveal Albus in his true form, somehow looking adorably awkward about it. Filius imagined it was a little like a wedding night; he looked forward to those moments almost as much as he looked forward to the trips, themselves.

Each departure was stealthy. Mindful of never neglecting their posts, they timed their trips only at those points of the year when staff traditionally visited family or went abroad: occasional long weekends; Spring Solstice; Midsummer; Christmas. One of them would always leave the castle a day or so before the other, rendezvousing at a spot in Britain for onward travel.

The return to Hogwarts would be similarly staged, but Albus always made a point of expressing his gratitude before they parted. "It was one of my regrets that I had never seen the world. Thank you, my dear,” he may say.

Filius would smile, and squeeze his hand. “The pleasure is mine.”

*****

Filius did his best to forget the war that was creeping outside of their walls, but as tensions mounted, it became harder and harder to ignore.

He had wanted to join the Order of the Phoenix, of course – but Albus wouldn’t have it.

"I used to be quite good at defensive magic, you know," insisted Filius. "I even won a duelling contest, once." He allowed a sardonic steak into his tone.

"I _know_ ," replied Albus, with the merest hint of a smile. "And that is exactly why I need you here. If I were to become... unavailable... there have to be Professors to run the school; good wizards and witches who are not politically linked to the Order, who can protect the students."

"But..." _Minerva's working with you. You're letting her._ Filius stopped himself from saying it. He swallowed hard. "... Will you at least tell me what's going on?"

Albus met his gaze, seriously. "No."

"But–"

"–If the worst were to befall, there must be plausible deniability. You must trust me."

Filius took a rattling breath. _Trust me._ He looked up at Albus: his beloved; their saviour. "How could I not?"

*****

The horrors reported in _The Prophet_ climbed day-on-day; Filius gleaned from whispers and snatched exchanges, that was only the half of it.

Minerva was out most evenings as a tabby cat spy, her hard Ministry training back in full force. She and Albus had long, complex meetings, to which Filius was not party.

Meanwhile, Filius did his very best not to feel envious. The situation was too serious for such feelings, he told himself; Albus was working for the greater good, and he was entitled to whatever means he needed to achieve that.

The nights alone were hard, though. Especially as Filius knew that, just on the other side of the locked passageway, Minerva sat in Albus' rooms for hours on end... _talking,_ he presumed. He _had_ to presume. 

It didn't help that Horace regaled Filius with jolly stories of fearless war agents who bonked each other senseless on the adrenaline-high that followed every mission they survived. Why _wouldn't_ Minerva want to be Albus' lover, after all? Filius could certainly understand the attraction – and as there was no outward sign that Albus unavailable, he was fair game.

Filius and Minerva had never been on anything but cordial grounds with one another, but a reserve had certainly built between them, of late. Conversations had become more superficial; there was an unarticulated guardedness on both their parts. Meetings – when they did occur – were by chance rather than by arrangement. Filius wondered why.

With Albus' absences, then, and that increasing awkwardness he felt with Minerva, Filius had been spending more and more time with Horace, again. Like Filius, Horace was not officially involved in any of the resistance efforts – but unlike Filius, Horace was entirely happy with that fact. Indeed, the stress of the war lurking in the shadows seemed to have made Horace even more decadent than his usual self. He was socialising almost frenetically, and gorging himself on sweet things as never before. It was almost as if he was trying to crowd out the awfulness by force of good living; to drown his worries under food and wine and boys. On that point, Horace more than once suggested that he and Filius might recommence their previous _arrangement_ – "surely you're not still pining after that mystery man, are you?" – but Filius politely demurred.

And so Filius waited for Albus, like a fisherman's wife gazing out to sea at the storm. There would be days at a time when Albus was away from the castle; Filius never knew when he would return, or in what state. Albus would come home prickling with hexes, singed and sometimes bleeding – or sometimes bodily unharmed, but soul-weary from another loss in their number. 

When they were together, though, Albus seemed to want to forget the unpleasantness of it all, at least for those moments and hours. He would suggest they play chess, or read a novel aloud, or go to bed early and pull up the covers. Filius was happy to oblige, always treasuring those times – but the unanswered questions drilled in his mind in serried ranks, just as the Death Eaters loomed in the shadows.

The stress was taking its toll upon Albus, Filius was sure. His nightmares became worse – tense and shaking and crying aloud when he had finally managed to go to sleep. He became thin, and his hair rapidly lost its colour. Filius, accepting that he couldn't ask about the workings of the Order, at least tried to ask Albus to take some care of himself.

Albus just made light of such concerns, though – saying that he'd simply been too busy to eat when Filius worried over his protruding ribcage, and attributing his suddenly white hair to the mere passage of time. "Besides, don't you like a silver fox?" he quipped.

"Of course I do, but-"

"Then come to bed with me, mmm?" 

Filius assented – and that, as ever, was the end of the discussion.

*****

“Albus, are you sure? He was a _Death Eater,_ and always showed such an interest in the Dark Arts, even when he was at school. There were some who were just misled, but Snape led himself there, all of his own agency.”

Albus took a deep breath, and said simply, “I trust Severus.” He turned to gaze out of the window, into the blustery night.

Filius wrung his hands, and looked down at the carpet. “I always try to see the good in people, really I do, but–" 

“–I’m sorry, Filius. I can’t discuss it.” 

A prickly silence permeated the air. Albus rarely addressed him by name like that, and even more rarely refused to discuss the business of the school.

Filius spread his hands in appeasement, even though Albus wasn't looking. He did so hate to argue. “Alright. And I trust _you._ " He tried to regroup his thoughts, adapting to yet another new 'normal'. “We’ll have to try to make him welcome in the Staff Room, I guess.”

Albus turned to look him in the eye – first seriously, and then breaking into a warm smile. “Thank you, my dear. You really are the best of men.” He knelt and opened his arms, inviting Filius into a hug.

Burying his nose into Albus velvet robes, Filius yielded to the contact, feeling immediately better. _I love you so much it hurts._

*****

It was over. Everyone was partying in the streets; only Albus appended the words, 'for now'.

For the first time in months, Filius felt safe – or more to the point, _permitted_ – to leave the castle. He visited Xeno and Pandora to meet their little girl: a perfect tiny scrap of life with wide eyes and already a tendency to make odd things happen around her crib. From Xeno, Filius would never have expected anything less.

On the tail of everything to which he was not permitted access, Filius came upon Albus and Horace exchanging heated words in a corridor. This time, _neither_ of them would tell him what it was all about. 

It seemed no coincidence, however, that Horace announced his retirement a few days later. It came as a shock to Filius; he was struck badly by the thought of losing his best friend at the school.

"But you retired before – and you came back," insisted Filius. "Surely you don't mean it this time, either?"

"Oh, but I do," replied Horace, and there was something quite final in his tone as he stared down into his swirling drink. "Besides," he added, conspiratorially, now looking up to wink in Filius' direction. "I want to make the best of the rest of the wild oats I have left, if you catch my drift. There's been all too much work and not enough play around here, lately. I deserve a break – and jolly well intend to have some fun with it!"

Filius looked down at the coffee table with sad eyes. "I'll miss you."

"Then come with me. Just think about it, eh? Neither of us are strapped for cash; neither of us really need to be here. We could have a bloody good time!"

Filius shook his head. Horace gave him a gentle smile, and didn't press.

*****

It was about a month after the war. Funerals and memorials had been attended, and the Wizarding World was adjusting to a lack of tyranny once more. Albus had turned down the position of Minister of Magic – again – and was avoiding the press as much as possible.

They were sitting together on the sofa in Albus' quarters. Quiet time together still seemed an absolute novelty; Filius was enjoying just soaking up Albus' presence, revelling in the fact that he wouldn't have to rush off somewhere dangerous.

Suddenly, though, Albus broke the companionable silence. “How would you feel if I were to ask Minerva to be Deputy Headmistress?”

Filius took a sharp breath, and tried to push down a wave of jealousy. That would mean _more_ long meetings with Minerva behind closed doors. –And besides, he had been a Head of House for longer than she. It just wasn't fair. 

Albus noted the look of consternation on Filius' face. "Not keen, then."

Filius didn't answer. He clenched his teeth. "Is it because she’s a Gryffindor?”

“No.” 

“Because she does Transfiguration, I suppose?”

“No.” Albus seemed almost amused.

“Oh! Just because you want to spend more time with her, then!" Filius felt his petulance boil over. It was a momentary relief, but accompanied immediately by that awful fear that Albus would pull away, were his doings to be questioned.

Luckily, though, Albus took it all in his stride. “ _No, it isn’t_ , you daft old thing." He squeezed Filius' knee. "It’s because she’s quite strict. Therefore, I think she’d do a good job at the more day-to-day disciplinary matters… which would mean I might have a little more time to spend with you. So – what do you say?"

Filius took that in, and sniffed. "I suppose that could be alright," he said – sulking now morphing into mock-sulking.

“Good." Albus nodded in crisp decision, and smiled. "I was also thinking: it's a long time since we went on a weekend away, together.”

It was, indeed. Filius had almost forgotten they had used to do that. "That would be nice," he replied, the understatement ringing in the air as his mind started to race around the possibilities. He glanced up at Albus, now forgetting to be miffed. "And perhaps I could make sure you have a proper meal or two."

Albus rolled his eyes. "You can feed me up, if you like." He grinned, the lines around his eyes deepening as he did so. "But I'm afraid the rest is all that's left, now. The fiery red hair is gone for good, no matter how many carrots you make me eat."

Filius swatted him on the arm for being silly, and then took Albus' hand in his own. "Grow old with me."

"I _am_ old," insisted Albus.

"No you're not; I refuse to believe that anyone with a full-size collection of pygmy puffs is _old._ "

Albus laughed, and then started to tickle Filius, in retaliation.

"Aah! Stop!" Filius giggled, squirming on the sofa. "Eee! Don't!"

He finally relented, leaving Filius flushed and grinning. "Minx."

Albus affixed his most pious expression; it didn't fool Filius for a second.

"See: _definitely_ not old," confirmed Filius, with a hint of smugness. "And even if you _think_ you are – stay with me while I catch up."

*****

Peace-time settled into its own rhythm. Albus and Minerva co-authored a book on modern exemptions to Gamp's Laws. Filius, feeling a bit embarrassed into action, wrote-up his thesis for the general market. Although he would never claim, _'A Treatise on the Ethnographic Origins of Magic'_ exactly flew off the shelves, it did make a respectable showing at Flourish and Blotts, and had a steady turnover in the more academic end of the market.

He also persuaded the Room of Requirement to do a passable impression of a Magic-Neutral Laboratory. It was not with the vigour of his adolescent self, but Filius managed to make some headway on those old questions about the fundamental nature of charms, and set up a sporadic correspondence with some of the Institute's Life Fellows on the subject. They welcomed him, but in the manner of welcoming a prodigal son who had gone astray; Filius' life had been altogether too worldly to truly count as one of their number.

Filius reflected how youth was rather a blessing, in that regard. When he was younger, his mind had been so _pure_. Filius wasn't a prudish sort; he didn't equate 'purity' with ignorance of the pleasures of the flesh; oh, no. It was more a matter clarity of purpose. He had seen the world in crisp black and white, and had set off to trace his own lovely geometrical pattern with those two simple shades. He had questions; he would seek their answers. He had talent; he would let it sing. There was an obstacle in his way? He would step over or around it: logical, straightforward, clean.

Yet now Filius knew that life was not quite like that. When his heart had been chewed-up and put back together from its little bits; when he had made compromises and accommodations; when he had accepted that some questions were not to be answered, and one somehow had to live with that; then it was hard to comport himself back into the wide-eyed enthusiast of teenage years and irrepressible dreams. Sometimes, lights had to be hidden under bushels; the caged raven had to learn a new song; one had to make the best picture one could from all of the nuanced, muddy shades of grey that the palette of life offered forth.

And so, Filius did his best. His House ran like clockwork, and his students became clever and confident. His papers achieved a nodding-respectable sort of status in the International Charms community. He ran to comfort Xeno when Pandora died in a tragic accident, leaving him alone with their little girl. 

Throughout it all was Albus: his light; his guide; the crusher and lifter of his soul. Filius could no more live without Albus than he could live without air – and as the years passed, Filius became more entwined; more enraptured; ever more dedicated. Everything he had, everything he knew, everything he felt, he would lay at the altar for this man.

For all the muddiness of the rest of the world, Filius knew with the blackest of blacks and the whitest of whites: he wouldn't have it any other way.

*****

Filius had kept his word that he would try to make Severus welcome, but despite all his efforts, he had to admit: he didn't much like the man.

There was simply no need to be so churlish with others. Severus seemed to make a special effort to offend and hurt: saying that Pomona was fat and Sybill was mad – it just wasn't nice.

Filius could even have forgiven insensitive words to colleagues – everyone can have a bad day, after all – but it was the way that Severus treated the children that he particularly found difficult. Severus would bully and be flagrantly partisan to his own House. He would call names and humiliate the youngsters – especially poor young Harry, who already had such a burden upon his shoulders, and, as far as Filius could see, had done nothing wrong.

Yet Albus seemed to have no recourse and no punishment for the Dark young Potions Master. Filius attempted to raise the subject a few times, but was flatly turned down. He shelved the matter in the growing collection of things that he was not allowed to ask about, and carried on – missing Horace terribly, by comparison.

By chance – or more likely because young Harry _was_ really marked in some way – every year, there seemed to be fresh trouble. If it wasn't the Philosopher's Stone, it was the Basilisk; if it wasn't the Basilisk, it was an Azkaban escapee. Hogwarts had been the one bastion of safety, but now, little by little, the danger seemed be encroaching within the hallowed walls.

Filius did everything that Albus asked him to, of course. He charmed a flight of keys, he placed anti-intruder wards on the oak doors, and he reassured his Ravenclaws with all the confidence and good cheer he could muster. On the latter point, he was helped considerably by Xeno's daughter, who was turning out be an absolute treasure. Luna could find light in even the deepest darkness; she had inherited the very best of Xeno's optimistic spirit.

Notwithstanding the troubles, _everyone's_ spirits lifted when the Triwizard Tournament was announced. There was the spectacle of the other schools arriving, the dragons and the Merfolk – and, of course, the Yule Ball.

Filius made an extra-special effort with decorating the Hall, that Christmas. He conjured more baubles than ever, charmed the ceiling to snow in gentle flurries, and arranged the fairies _just so._ It was all going to be perfect; he was reminded just how much he enjoyed a spot of decorative magic, and was humming carols and festive little ditties to himself as he walked the corridors.

He had not quite accounted for the occasion itself, though. Couples held hands and danced cheek-to-cheek; Albus barely made eye contact with Filius. Instead, Filius watched as Minerva and Albus waltzed for hours. They looked rather an appropriate couple, Filius thought, ruefully: tall and elegant, with robes that swished and billowed as they strode around the floor. He sat on the sidelines, drinking his cherry cocktail; there would be no walks in the garden, that night. Filius slipped off back to his rooms when the evening was still in full swing. If, by morning, Filius' pillow was rather damp, no-one would have known; Albus did not come to call.

As the tournament reached its apogee, all turned to horror. A boy was killed and the Dark Lord loomed upon them once more. With resignation in his soul, Filius knew the drill: hide your terror; don't ask; don't be disappointed.

*****

"How dare they? In Merlin's name, how _dare_ they?!" Filius was brandishing the latest edition of _The Prophet_. It was already rolled into a tight scroll, perforated with angry nail-marks. He strode around Albus' office, endangering most of the furniture and instruments with flailing arms and spontaneous Tinder Charms.

"Shhh, it's alright..." attempted Albus. He cast a surreptitious anti-flammability ward on the carpet.

"It is _not_ alright!" rejoined Filius. "The scoundrels! Really – after all you've done for them. We wouldn't even _be_ here, if it wasn't for you. You saved all Europe from Grindelwald – have those Ministry idiots forgotten all their history, as well as their sense?" Albus shifted from foot to foot, looking a little uncomfortable. "And then, in the last war, you led them to victory! And this is their thanks? Their respect?"

"Really, I–"

"–There's even the threat here to take away your Order of Merlin, Albus! It's disgusting, that's what it is. Filthy, gutter journalism, from corrupt, self-serving, ignoramus officials who wouldn't know courage and talent if it bit them on the behind like an Acromantula in broad daylight!"

"A colourful analogy, my dear."

"I will _not_ have them slander you like this! I won't stand for it!" Filius had finally exhausted himself, and stood in the centre of the rug, lightly panting.

Albus seemed to consider it safe to come out from behind his desk; he joined Filius in the centre of the room, and was smiling. "I am touched by your impassioned defence of me, Darling. But really, it won't be necessary."

"But–" started Filius. He was silenced by Albus' hand on his shoulder.

"My ego is one of the most robust things about me, as you well know." Albus gave a self-deprecating grin. "And it seems I am fortunate enough to retain those few good opinions that actually matter."

Filius relaxed a little, and they kissed. Albus tasted of toffee, sherbet lemons, and happier times.

*****

When Albus was removed from Hogwarts – seemingly without end – it was the worst feeling that Filius had known. He had received no direct word. There had just been third-hand information from Minerva that Albus was co-ordinating Order business from the headquarters, wherever they may be. As ever, Filius couldn't ask too strongly about it, lest he arouse suspicion of his cares.

Filius felt his insides had seized into concrete. He couldn't eat, and he lay in bed at night, failing to sleep. He imagined Albus fighting Voldemort night after night, never knowing whether he was dead; the gruesome pantomime went on and on, repeating in endless variation and dread.

Perhaps the worst part was the fact that it could continue indefinitely. Filius could be stuck forever in this limbo, never again hearing from the man he loved – while that rampant woman wrecked the school and all Albus had worked so hard to build. It was a living torture. 

After a month and a half, Filius wondered whether he could even go on. Minerva didn't say anything directly about it, but she did seem to have taken to giving him shortbread biscuits. Filius took them politely and thanked her; they stacked up in his rooms, going stale.

On the night of Voldemort's unmasking, Albus returned to the castle and came straight to Filius' chambers. Filius felt guilty for it in some part of his mind, but despite the great tragedies of that day, his heart was simply thrumming with joy at Albus' safe return. "I couldn't live without you."

They made love; it was creaky and slow but achingly tender, with Filius taking in every inch of Albus, burning the sensations into his mind as if to prove they were still real.

Afterwards, they lay close. Albus stoked Filius' jutting cheekbones with his fingertips, and ran a hand over his sunken tummy. "My Darling, you've unravelled yourself."

Filius burrowed into Albus' embrace and screwed his eyes closed. "Then you better stay right here to put me back together."

Albus held him tight, but gave the saddest of sighs.

*****

With Albus back at the castle, Filius was stronger – in soul and in body. He tried to be stoic in face of the news; the fear; the uncertainty. He did it for Albus' sake.

Naturally, Filius kept a close watch on Albus, whenever he had the chance. The war seemed different this time with him; somehow more personal. Albus had taken to brooding in his study, and went off for nights into the dark, apparently without any other members of the Order at his side. In the first war he had acted as a brave general; a leader and inspirer of troops – now it seemed almost a private mission.

Filius noticed that Albus' confidantes had changed, too; that added to Filius' unease. He didn't expect an answer – but late one night, Filius mentioned it, nevertheless. "I'm used to you always running to Minerva, but now you barely see her, either.

"It's always Severus." Filius eyeballed Albus, seriously. "You're playing with something dangerous, aren't you?" It wasn't a question.

Filius had expected Albus to deflect and decline – but this time he just returned Filius' heavy gaze. "I fear so." His voice was small and quiet. Just for a moment, Albus looked afraid.

In the weeks that followed, Albus' hand turned gaunt and black. It was not something that they discussed.

*****

"Horace! You're back!" Filius rushed up to the round figure retreating on the sixth floor corridor. He was levitating a massive amount of luggage, two-thirds of which appeared to be gilded, and the remaining third apparently edible.

"Oho! Hello, m'boy." Horace set down his load and wiped his brow with a silk handkerchief.

"You said you'd retired for good!"

"Ha, well..." Horace spread his hands, looking a bit awkward. "Never say 'never', eh?"

"It's lovely to see you," continued Filius. "How good of you to take on the Defence position; after that terrible woman last year and all we've been through, we really need a solid sort willing to do it."

"Defence?" Horace wrinkled his brow. "No chance! I wouldn't be seen dead with anything but Potions."

Now, Filius looked taken aback. "Then who...?"

"Didn't Albus _tell_ you?" Horace frowned in askance. "It's Severus."

*****

Albus was looking increasingly ill. Filius was increasingly doing his best to pretend that wasn't the case.

Filius had long ago decided that although he was somewhat older, Albus was basically indestructible. The Examiners were comfortably in their two-hundreds and some of the Institute's Life Fellows were said to be grazing their third centuries; it was a central tenet of Filius' world that Albus would follow the same long-lived path. He was fit and vivacious and prodigiously clever; of _course_ he would live for years and years. There was simply no other way.

And if Albus had been looking a bit peaky of late – well, he was stressed, and probably wasn't eating properly, again. They had come through this before, and would come through it, again. Filius just had to believe that was true.

Filius attended Horace's Christmas party, and had a jolly evening. With the food, wine, crystallised pineapple and well-connected guests, it was almost like old times. Filius had a glass or three, and chatted with an Austrian opera star called Margherite. Albus wasn't there of course, but if he squinted, Filius could just about imagine him on the other side of the room – standing up strong and tall by the fireplace, gesturing animatedly with both hands as his red hair glinted in the reddish lantern light. Filius sighed, being careful not to appear rude to Horace's guest. _Where had the time gone?_

In April, it was the thirtieth anniversary of the first time Filius and Albus had kissed. Filius celebrated in his usual way: he didn't say a word. It was funny – after all this time, he still had a sense that he shouldn't frighten the horses. With every year that had passed, Filius had felt just a lingering sense of relief – as if Albus had just forgotten to end their relationship for another year; hadn't quite gotten around to breaking things off. The last thing he wanted to do was remind Albus of that, lest it climb up his to-do list. 

Sometimes, Filius wondered whether his superstitions on this point were justified. He typically decided that he wasn't sure, and it didn't matter; he wasn't going to be taking any chances.

*****

The Scottish climate had produced a perfect specimen of a summer day. It had been warm but not muggy; sunlight showcased the flowers standing pert and expectant in the grounds, unaware as they were of the trammelling thunderstorms yet to come. The long, late twilight had just bled from the sky, the evening chorus of blackbirds giving way to the soft hooting of the owl. The night-time breeze sighed in the leaves as if it had all the time in the world.

It was almost as if the season had no idea what was going on among wizards, Filius thought – or perhaps it had both the notion and the impertinence to carry on, regardless.

He had just got into bed – after the usual level of pottering about, putting out the lights – when there came a knock on the passageway door. 

"May I come in?"

"Of course, but..." Filius was taken aback: Albus had never arrived unannounced, before. Their evenings together were always planned in advance – and by convention, in Albus' chambers.

At Filius’ words, the door swung open; Albus was standing there in his nightshirt. Filius made to stand up to greet him. "No, no – don't get up." 

Albus walked inside, and by way of explanation just gave an expansive shrug. "Do you mind if..." He gestured at the other side of Filius' little bed.

Filius shook his head, and pulled back the covers. He was caught between feeling perplexed and just enjoying the happy surprise.

Albus tucked them both in, and they lay together, almost nose-to-nose on the pillows. It had been more companionable than carnal of late – what with Albus’ damaged hand and the weight of worry upon them both – but that did nothing to stem the overflowing warmth that Filius felt. He wrapped his arms around Albus, who returned Filius’ embrace and exhaled slowly, tickling Filius’ face with his breath.

Silently, Filius _Noxed_ the last of the lights. They held one another in the still summer night; Filius began to drift off to sleep.

"I... will be going on a mission tomorrow."

Filius was suddenly awake again, alert to every syllable. Albus had never mentioned such things in advance before; now his words seemed almost supra-human, in the close dark.

"Where are you going?" Filius managed.

Albus sighed. "I'm sorry. I can't tell you."

"–But I want to help."

Albus held him tighter. "You are helping, my dear. More than you can imagine."

There was a long pause, as if the conversation were over.

When Albus spoke again, his voice was softer than before, almost tremulous. "Would you do something for me?"

"Anything." Filius gave his answer immediately; instinctively. Every hair on his body was standing on end, despite the gentle warmth around them.

"If anything should happen to be in the castle that shouldn't be, please go and fetch Severus. Go in person; don't use a Patronus."

Filius frowned, the pillow creasing against his face. "Alright.” A silence sat between them. “But is that all?"

"–And if it should be needed, please protect the students,” Albus finished. “But I know I don’t need to ask you to do that.”

“Mm-hmm,” Filius assented.

The silence returned, but it was clear that neither of them were near sleep. Brainwaves seemed to lick and whirl through the air, and images tricked behind closed eyelids.

When he couldn’t stand it any longer, Filius made the smallest, softest glow appear just above the headboard. Albus was painted in fairy-light. His skin was a landscape of creases and patterns like the finest of tapestries and his spider-silk hair danced across the pillows. His bottomless blue eyes held all the world’s mysteries; it was all Filius could do to hold on to that gaze; to give himself wholly and be lost in it.

The breath caught in Filius’ throat. “You’re the love of my life, you know.” In all of these years, he had never said it out loud. Now, the dark air seemed to swallow his words, making them strange to his own ears.

Albus gave a small smile, but nodded gravely. “I know, my dear heart. I know.”

*****

“There are Death Eaters in the castle! Filius – go and wake Severus.” Minerva shouted the words to him along the seventh floor corridor.

Immediately, Filius turned around and ran to the dungeons. He hammered on the door to Severus’ rooms, which opened almost immediately. “Severus, come now! There are–”

“–Stupefy!”

Filius felt a blinding pain between his eyes and then all went black.


	7. Horace

**Horace**

Blinking painfully against the bright light, Filius came to. His head hurt, but otherwise his body seemed functional; Filius experimented with moving each limb, and they worked, more or less. He seemed to be in the hospital wing.

He strained to remember what had happened. It was fuzzy... but then all of the memories hit him at once: Death Eaters; running to the dungeons; _Severus._

Filius sat up straight – and then fainted again for a moment, crashing back to the pillows. He had another go at sitting up – more slowly, this time – and Summoned his wand. When he was reasonably confident that he wasn’t going to pass out again, Filius banished the various medical monitoring charms that had been cast over the hospital bed, and teetered to his feet.

His steps were shaky at first, but then spurred on by urgency and panic as he walked the length of the ward.

“Filius! Where are you _going_?” admonished Poppy, aghast to see him out of bed. “They’ve all disappeared now; you need rest.”

Filius shook his head, smartly. “I need to see my students.” He paused. For a moment, a battle raged inside between anxiousness and discretion; anxiousness won. “Where’s Albus?”

Poppy spread her hands. “I haven’t seen him.”

Filius had intended to go straight to Ravenclaw Tower, but as soon as he entered the main corridors gathering footsteps drew him down into the grounds. It was still pitch-dark outside, and for a summer night, cold.

A small number of figures were heading in one direction, drawn silently to the base of the Astronomy Tower, as if under some kind of curse. Without thinking, he followed them, and when he got there – 

– Filius was struck with horror. 

He could not breathe, or move. He could not even look away. The world seemed to fall away around him; his hands and feet lost their sensation, and the sounds of voices and footsteps were all stripped away, as if he were alone at the bottom of an impossibly deep well.

He had no idea how long he was frozen there, gazing blankly at the broken remains of the man he loved. It could have been minutes, or hours. In the dark press of onlookers, no-one paid him any mind.

Finally, Filius tore himself away from the scene, and crept around a protruding stone buttress. He was violently sick. He stood shaking, and then was sick again, until there was nothing left.

_I should have been there. I could have saved you._ Albus’ bloodied face rose like a spectre before Filius’ eyes, blaming him for being so stupid, so careless – knocked about by a simple stunning jinx. If only he had been on his guard... he had never liked Severus, never thought him a decent person… and now… he should have been ready… he should have been there… he should have saved Albus, _his_ Albus, his love…

The grief roiled up around him, and Filius honestly thought he would die from it; he would be sucked under; swallowed whole by an endless tide of guilt and misery and blame. In that moment, he didn’t care; he _wanted_ to be taken by it. Anything to stop the pain. Anything to make it unreal.

Once again, Filius lost all sense of time as he secreted himself there, in the lea of the great stone foundations. He could not later recall what he might have done, but a final curse to his own throat could surely have been close.

Finally, though, something from the outside world pricked at the edge of his consciousness: it was the voices of his colleagues: Minerva; Pomona; Horace. The words, ‘close the school’ and ‘protect the children’ wafted by – and then Filius was catapulted back to a night ago, a lifetime ago. _“And if it should be needed, please protect the students.”_ He had promised. Albus had trusted him.

Filius considered for a moment going out there and joining them – to be the strong Housemaster, to do his part. He could almost see his own silvery image doing it – even as he stood immobile, unable. How could he possibly carry on… when everything in his life had been destroyed? He was mangled, dismembered, crushed; his heart had no strength.

And then, in a flash of desperation, Filius spun it: Horace's charm; the charm he never thought he would have cause to use. He felt the barriers coming down, iron doors swinging shut in his mind. Everything that had been good and beautiful and beloved was locked away behind huge walls that sat in Filius’ brain like Azkaban upon the ocean. Ugly, but secure.

When it was finished, he felt... numb. –But at least, able to function. Filius had left open his respect for Albus as a great Headmaster, and nothing more. 

He took a deep breath, Vanished the mess on the ground, and walked out to join the other teachers.

*****

Filius helped to plan the funeral. He insisted that Albus should be buried in the Hogwarts grounds, and luckily met with little resistance.

The service was dignified, but seemed oddly detached. Sitting in the first row of the congregation, Filius fidgeted in his chair. He sat next to Minerva, who was crying silent tears in streams that ran into the neck of her robes like prying fingers. Horace sat on the other side, looking more serious than Filius had ever seen him. Everyone seemed lost in their own private thoughts.

Looking to the left and right, Filius noted the wide range of magical beings who were in attendance: the Merfolk; the half-Giants; the Centaurs. Albus had been so widely respected, his memory had the power to bring together such disparate peoples and philosophies. It was inspiring – and yet the terrible news of werewolf uprisings and Dementors becoming emboldened by the day continued to reach them. The magical species of the world were in lesser harmony than ever, Filius considered – and he was not entirely sure that was the fault of the other species. He pondered for a moment, but reached no conclusion because he was distracted by the blazing flash on the stone plinth before them.

The resulting sarcophagus was elegant, but rather plain. Filius supposed it had been designed in a rush, and by a Ministry committee, at that. He shrugged to himself; he supposed it would have to do.

Afterwards, as the crowd lost its shape into the lawns, Rufus Scrimgeour approached Filius and handed him a wooden box. The Minister claimed to be the executor of Dumbledore's will. Scrimgeour spoke as few words as possible, and then left Filius with a curt nod. He had exactly the awkward air of an Englishman who had just pried into another man's private affairs, but was certainly not going to admit to the fact.

When the attendees had gone, Filius put the box on a shelf in his office, without looking inside.

*****

The Ministry was seized, and the criminals had installed Snape as Headmaster. Filius spent a good half an hour strengthening the barriers in his mind to deal with the sheer revulsion of it. He, like the other Heads of House, never wavered from returning that September, though; the students needed protection now more than ever.

Thus, Filius applied himself to teaching his classes and looking after his Ravenclaws with renewed vigour. It was some small way of making a stand against the tyranny that had infected their world; Filius comforted himself with the fact that he was surely making a little difference to the lives of vulnerable children who would otherwise be thrown solely to the care and education of Death Eaters.

Life as a Professor was peculiar. There were no staff meetings or discussions; information and instructions were delivered by terse diktat, written by an automated quill. The hated Headmaster himself was very rarely visible; no-one ventured into his office apart from that revolting pair of lackeys he had installed to teach Muggle abuse and the Dark Arts. 

The rest of the Professors, then, lived in wary detachment. There had actually been curious little meddling in their teaching or activities – almost as if Snape considered Charms and Transfiguration and Herbology and all of the other wonderful things they taught to be so beneath him, so inconsequential, that they could carry on without oversight. Their quarters were untouched and mealtimes carried on as normal. The Staff Room was frequented by the same faces as before – no more and no fewer. Albus had never set foot in there, either.

For Filius, Horace was one glimmer of light in the darkness all around them; one tangible source of human spirit. The two of them stayed up late chatting and sharing a drink as ever, putting the world to rights like some elderly pair of students. It was amazing that Horace still had jokes and stories to share – even now, when half the world had turned evil, and the other half was so far under the Imperius curse, it might as well have turned evil, too. He always managed to find some levity; some good; some hope. Filius was very grateful.

He was also very grateful for the self-Occlumency charm. Filius had become accustomed to the strange numbness in his mind, but was always conscious of the need to maintain the effect. As time passed, though, it became more and more time-consuming to secure – as if a pressure were building up behind the dam all the time, and an ever increasing force was needed to keep it back.

Filius returned to his musings about the part of all magical beings in this colossal mess. Giants trampled Muggle villages, Dementors preyed upon the innocent, werewolves hunted in packs… for what? Did they honestly believe that Voldemort would give them a better deal when all was finished? How naïve to think a monster like that would be willing to let them have a slice of his great power.

Filius shared his thoughts with Horace, who took a swig of port and nodded heartily. "Indeed. But I’ll tell you what the greatest scandal of all is, m'boy."

"Mmmm?" Filius raised his eyebrows.

"Gringotts." Horace said the word with such finality, it was as if no further explanation were required.

“Gringotts?”

"Yes; those filthy, self-serving goblins!"

Filius felt the familiar prickle of embarrassment at the turn in conversation – even, now. "How so?" he asked, lightly, turning his fingernails into his palms.

"Well, in these circumstances, maintaining neutrality basically amounts to a war crime, does it not?” asserted Horace. “They control our economy. Any half-decent creature would have been doing all in their power to restrict funds and means to the murders, before it got too bad. But no; those little swines were just rubbing together their pointy hands and stowing away treasures in the Dark Lord's vaults. It's reprehensible.” He took a long drink, then leaned forward, warming to his theme. “One may hate a troll, or find a Grindylow distasteful – but those creatures do at least have the excuse of stupidity. Goblins, on the other hand, are clever. Cleverer than you and me – or at least, cleverer than me," Horace added gallantly “–and they have every faculty a creature would need to tell right from wrong. And yet they don’t.”

Filius nodded, taking all that in. “It’s a fair point, my friend. A fair point.”

*****

“No! You'll do no more murder at Hogwarts!" Filius ran to Minerva’s aid, breathless and livid. He animated the suit of armour behind which Snape was hiding, but their efforts were in vain; the villain escaped.

In the ensuing battle, Filius drew upon every charm and shield he had ever learned. The corridors were a field of blood and curses, but Filius held his own. He disabled several Death Eaters and escaped the hexes of many more. He _was_ a duelling champion, after all. 

The fight was long and arduous. There were no rules; no courtesies or rules of war. The enemy was fighting to kill; maim; bloody; dismember. Acromantulas and giants bore down upon Hogwarts and Dementors stalked overhead. The beings who fought alongside the Order suffered casualties just as great as did the wizards, as green sparks flew into the air and final screams ricocheted from the torn, ancient walls.

At the last, when Harry and Voldemort circled one another in the Great Hall, Filius listened to Harry’s revelations, open-mouthed. The wand. Harry’s mother. Severus. _Albus._

Harry triumphed. 

With the greatest relief, Filius was among the first to rush forward and hug the boy. The world was saved. Hogwarts was _safe_.

Battle-torn and bleeding, the survivors sat together at the House tables. Filius rushed around, finding as many people as he could: his Ravenclaws past and present; his colleagues; Minerva; Horace. Habitually, now, he kept strengthening the barriers in his mind. They seemed weaker than ever before, and were hurting more painfully than the cuts and burns that tattered his skin.

As the morning hours passed, the hall emptied, little by little. The defenders were exhausted. They peeled off in family groups with gentle thoughts of hugs and soft, safe beds. Eventually, the Professors departed, too. Minerva said that they would all meet in the evening, but everyone needed rest, first; as ever, it was sensible advice. Even Argus had been persuaded that clearing up could wait.

That just left Filius, standing alone in the remains of the Great Hall. He walked to the plinth, where the high table used to be; where Albus used to sit.

Filius blinked, as if seeing the wreckage for the first time. He had done his job and kept his word – but now, in his life, there was precisely nothing.

It turned out that Albus had planned the whole thing. Had never said a word. Had never said goodbye.

*****

The day after the battle, almost everyone had gone home. Everyone, that is, apart from the teachers – who still had serious work to do at the school, and some of whom had no real home to go to, anyway.

Filius and Horace sat in the tatters of the Staff Room, quite alone. It was early afternoon, but overcast; a sickly light crept through the leaded glass, bringing out the fresh cracks in the plasterwork and the singes on the tapestries. They had tidied and repaired as best they could, but it would be a long road to restore the castle to its former glory.

Filius had been stewing ever since the battle had passed, retreading Harry's words, becoming increasingly tied in knots. The monoliths in his mind still sat at the edge of his consciousness, but they were now as cracked and damaged as the castle, creaking and straining against all of Filius' other thoughts, until his mind – usually so clear and orderly – was now a cacophony of muddy sounds and cries. He felt positively unwell with it, as if something simply had to give or he would go mad, and... “Horace, can I tell you something?” Filius gasped straight after he said it, but also felt just one iota better.

Horace gave a kind smile. “I’m all ears, m'boy."

There was a long pause as Filius wondered what he was actually intending to say. He had no plan. The pressure was roiling inside his brain, making it difficult to think... It hurt.... nothing was clear; he was a million miles away.

In the end, the words just came by themselves: “Albus and I were... for all these years…. that is–”

“–I know.”

Filius stopped dead at Horace's interruption, and was somehow catapulted back to the present. “You _know?_ ”

“Of course I do." Horace gave another gentle smile, but appeared uncharacteristically serious. "The way you looked at him could only have meant one thing. It was beautiful to behold. Albus was lucky beyond measure to have had a chap as fine as you." Horace spread his hands, warming to his theme. "Now, not many people could have put up with him, I reckon – those theatrics, the mystical-than-though aura… and I never thought he treated you kindly, truth be told. Where was the recognition, eh? The respect? The give-and-take and the symmetry of the whole thing? Not that you need my opinion – you’re made of the finest stuff there is going, my friend. You shine with the light of the good, only seeing the best in people, and so–"

“–Don’t.” Filius couldn’t stand it. The lump in his throat was choking him, and… “Please…” His voice shook, and his fingertips had gone numb. His mind was blank and reeling and he felt sick, and those year-old barriers were failing now, in slow motion, breaking and… and…

“Oh, shush. Old chap, I’m so very, very sorry,” whispered Horace. “Come here.” Horace opened his arms as he sat on the sofa, beckoning Filius to come closer.

Feeling the stoppered grief of months finally crash down and overwhelm him, Filius collapsed into Horace’s soft embrace, and cried and cried and cried.


	8. Xenophilius

**Xenophilius**

A fortnight after the battle, Filius went to visit Xeno in Ottery St Catchpole; he had just been let back home. Visitors hadn’t been allowed in the hospital ward; they were overrun with casualties, and having the able-bodied underfoot would have just made matters worse. Filius had been given a briefing by the Mediwizard who signed the release papers, though – with Luna deemed too fragile, he had been designated the ‘responsible adult’ on behalf of his friend. St Mungo’s had done their best to help those who had been wrongly imprisoned, but resources were scarce. The terror of Azkaban still lurked in faces and in souls.

Filius knocked, but there was no answer. He pushed open the unlocked door, and walked inside.

Xeno was slumped across the room, half-smoking an enormous, roughly-rolled cigar that was packed with leaves Filius didn’t recognise. It was for ‘medicinal purposes’, the Mediwizard had said – allowed in moderation to calm the nerves. Xeno looked weak and dust-white, falling in his wingback armchair at an awkward angle. He had been in a terrible state when they first took him from Azkaban, the reports had said, shaking and crying-out at shadows. Filius supposed that being allowed home marked some improvement, at least – or perhaps simply the fact that St Mungo’s needed the bed back. The number of dog-ends littering the front room suggested that the medication had been underway in anything but ‘moderation’.

Xeno had clearly either had a bit of help from the resettlement team, or had benefitted from bursts of his own energy. The house had been slip-shod rebuilt; things that buzzed and whirred competed with the _plop-plop_ leak in the ceiling and the whistling draft. Surreptitiously, Filius cast a few sealant charms. Xeno had never been very good with practical magic.

Filius was sad to see his old friend thus, but tried to put on a cheerful face. "Good afternoon, Xeno!" he called.

There was a very long pause, as if Xeno had not heard a thing. Suddenly, he looked in Filius' direction. "Afternoon?"

"Yes, it absolutely is," tried Filius. "Just past three o'clock. I've come to see how you're doing."

Xeno nodded as if absorbing a very profound statement. "Yes... quite." He paused again, eyes somewhere in the middle distance.

Filius shifted from foot to foot, wondering if he could do anything useful about the cottage.

Xeno's attention suddenly snapped upon him, declaring, "Filius," with great emphasis, as if seeing him for the first time.

He chuckled nervously. "Indeed."

"I was thinking about my thesis, you see." Xeno made to sit up a little straighter.

“Oh?” asked Filius, politely. It had been so long now, he found the topic rather awkward.

“Yes! Yes I was." Leaning forward, Xeno looked rather precarious. "It’s nearly finished you see… so very nearly almost finished…”

"Mmmm."

"I just need... The Snorkack. That's it, just the Snorkack and maybe a Bullyblisterbuster or two..."

"Ah."

"And then... and then..." Xeno took a long drag on the rolled cigar, and flopped back again, his head lolling to one side.

Filius sat down on one of the other chairs. "I say, where is your lovely daughter at the moment?" he asked, keen to change the subject.

"Daugh-ter." Xeno said the word quizzically, tasting the syllables.

"Yes, Luna, of course! She was an absolute marvel in the battle, you know. You must be so proud of her."

"Fishing for plimpies," replied Xeno, decisively.

"I see... Now, how about I head to your kitchen and make us some tea?"

Xeno didn't reply, which Filius took as agreement. He bustled around at the back of the house, Summoning and heating things, and unpacking the little selection of fairy cakes that he had brought with him onto a tray shaped like a Billywig, which had been signed in the bottom left corner by 'Luna, aged six'.

Some liquid and sugar seemed to have a positive effect, and Xeno became a little more lucid as the visit progressed. They talked about their travels together, and Luna's favourite subjects at Hogwarts, and how it was set to be a lovely summer. Filius did his best to keep the conversation light, and Xeno engaged.

There were significant pauses, though, and the smouldering cigar did nothing to help.

"The Dementors..."

"Shhh, it's alright. No-one's going to send you back there." Filius had been ready for this turn in the conversation. The Mediwitch had been clear that it might happen.

"...they're just creatures, like us. I chatted with them, you know."

"'Chatted'?" Filius sounded sceptical.

"Yes." Xeno frowned, then, as if Filius was being silly. "They were starving, you see. If they don't get at least one soul per year they...fade away altogether. Worried for their kind. Who can blame them?"

"Well, I..." Filius confessed that he had never regarded the matter from the Dementors' point of view. He was not sure that he wanted to.

"It's awful, really – the plight of the others. No wonder there is never peace. There will be another tyrant ready to take advantage of the situation if we don't do something about it. We have a chance now, but wizards won't.... not really..."

It was an interesting point – and indeed, not so far removed from the thoughts Filius himself had been pondering. "So, what do you propose?"

"The thing is, Filius…" Xeno smiled, and tapped his cigar in the air, as if it were a gavel. "We need a fundamental change in society, don’t we? Not just another new government, but a whole new order. We need to rethink it all from scratch. To be radical." He nodded, decisively. “Who said that wizards need to be in charge, anyway? A fat lot of good that’s done us. What about all the other creatures? Giants, mmm? And Centaurs? Merfolk? And the Pukwudgies of the great American savannah – now, they could show us a thing or two about being civilised. We’re so anthropocentric, it’s utterly ridiculous."

"Mmmm." Filius considered that, as Xeno took a long drag.

“But really, I know exactly the species that would be better at all of this ‘society’ business than we are – smart, loyal…” He paused then, seeming to have lost his train of thought. Xeno's eyes glazed over in some far-off reverie.

He twitched and snapped back. “Did I say ‘smart’? ‘Cause they really are, you know. The cleverest. ….And they are… that is…”

“Yes?” encouraged Filius, now actually wanting to know.

But Xeno had gone to sleep, head stooped to one side as the smouldering leaves hit the floor from his pale, limp fingers.

Filius extinguished the mess quickly, and then cast some fire-retardant charms on the carpet and furniture for good measure. He glanced around the living room, once again feeling rather awkward. The various supplies of food he had brought with him were already stowed in the larder, and Filius had done his best to impress their existence onto Xeno. He would visit again, soon, but for now, Xeno was out for the count. 

Filius tucked a blanket around him, together with a warming charm and a pillow for Xeno’s lolling head. He made to leave quietly.

As he neared the threshold, however, Filius heard Xeno mumble a single word: “ _Goblins._ ”


	9. Minerva

**Minerva**

Filius steeled himself as he climbed the staircase to the Headmaster's office – the Headmistress' office, as it now was.

Minerva was behind the desk, her half-moon spectacles perched on her nose as if they, and she, belonged there.

"Filius," she smiled, as he appeared in the doorway. "Do come in. How can I help?"

He took a deep breath, and drew on the words he had rehearsed. “I think… I’d like to step down.”

Minerva was surprised into putting down her pen, and looked at Filius incredulously. “What do you mean?”

“I… am going to retire.” He chuckled nervously. “I guess I’m giving you my notice.”

Minerva shook her head in disbelief, and then snapped into an efficient sort of mode. “Please do sit down. Let me make some tea. Biscuit?”

“Um… no thanks.” Filius did take the proffered seat, though, and they looked at one another warily across the desk.

Minerva sighed. “Retire, Filius? I don’t understand. You’re not an old man. You have _years_ left; we both do. Even _Horace_ is staying on at Hogwarts.”

Filius nodded non-committally, not wanting an argument.

"–And I need you to lead Ravenclaw House."

Filius had thought of that one; he was no longer willing to believe that he was indispensable. "I’m sure that Aurora will do an equally good job."

Minerva looked a little peeved at that, but she was not going to argue against Professor Sinistra's competence. 

“But what will you _do,_ Filius?” She asked, trying a different tack.

“I don’t know,” he answered. Then, thinking vaguely of his Gringotts account, which could never run dry, “Maybe I’ll travel.”

Minerva nodded, appearing very unconvinced. A pause stretched between them. Then, she removed her glasses and got out from behind the desk. With a quick wave of her hand, Minerva conjured another chair that was next to where Filius sat. She joined him, knee-to-knee and eye-to-eye. “What’s going on, Filius? I’m asking… not as a Headmistress, but as a friend.”

He gave a big sigh, and felt his enforced composure slip. It was a long time since he and Minerva had talked openly with one another, without the layers of professionalism and control and veiled jealousy slinked between them. He was struck by the thought – almost as if it were a surprise – that they had once been close. He looked down at the floor, eyes focussed miles and years away.

“I…” He was not trying to be guarded, now, but nothing articulate came. Everything ached; his mind and his soul felt empty. The wounds that had been opened up were so vast, so sore, he felt as if he had already bled to death. “I… I’m spent.”

Minerva frowned, but more out of concern than annoyance. “Of course, we’re all tired at the moment,” she offered. “The war has taken its toll; the last year has been terrible; I do understand.” She seemed to regroup, then, and leaned toward Filius. “So, how about this? You take the summer off. Look after yourself, have a proper break, and don’t worry about any of the usual out-of-term duties and planning for September. We’ll take care of all that. Then you can step back in next term, feeling properly refreshed, and carry on from there.”

Filius shook his head sharply, feeling the real reason boil up in his breast like a beast that demanded daylight. This was becoming more difficult even than he had imagined; he could feel his throat becoming thick and his tear ducts prickling.

“But why not?” Minerva asked the question with surprising gentleness.

Filius swallowed hard, but it was too late; the tears had already started to roll down his cheeks. He shook his head in defeat, feeling wide open and guileless, but no longer really caring.

Minerva didn’t push; she just sat there patiently, waiting for Filius to speak again.

When he did, the words seemed to come from almost another place, peculiar to his own ears. It was as if the truth had broken through of its own agency, without his decision or consent. “My heart died that night on the Astronomy Tower. I need to leave its grave.”

Minerva took that in. If she was shocked, she didn’t show it – but her eyes welled too, as she nodded again, this time with a desolate finality.

“Did you… know?” Somehow, it felt important to ask.

Minerva gave a self-effacing shrug. "There had to be some reason for the cool reserve between you and I, didn’t there?" She looked down, appearing genuinely sad. "Some important factor; some major influence.” 

Filius knotted his eyebrows, his expression requesting her to go on. 

“Perhaps I knew; yes. Or perhaps it could have just been the secret passageway to Ravenclaw Tower that I found when I moved into this office." She gave a wry smile.

Filius felt increasingly sick, but a question loomed in his mind – and old canker, troubling him once again. He had to ask; he had to know; he couldn’t live with the careful uncertainty any longer. "Were you and Albus...?" He let the question hang; the meaning was clear.

"No." Minerva shook her head. "I'm sorry if he let you think that we were.”

The implications of her words filtered through Filius’ mind like blood on the sheets, permeating the layers; leaving a mark.

“I loved Albus…” Minerva continued, “but we did not love one another like that. He found me... useful."

Filius nodded, conflicted feelings of relief and regret curdling inside him. _Useful_. Oh, how he had wished to be thought _useful._

They sat together silently, but the silence was no longer uncomfortable. Decades and ghosts played behind their eyes, private, yet now somehow shared.

After some while, Filius spoke again. "Minerva, may I ask you something else?" She nodded. "On the day that Albus..." He couldn't quite bring himself to finish the phrase. "...Why did you ask me to go to fetch Severus?"

Minerva gave a grim smile. "It was one of Albus' particular instructions that you should do that. It seemed oddly specific; I didn't understand at the time. But – given Albus' many puzzling directions – that wasn't exactly unusual.” She frowned. "I've thought about it, since. I know that Albus had great respect for your magical abilities, Filius. I judge that he thought you were the only one who could have stopped Severus from completing their plan – unless Severus stopped you first."

Filius nodded once more. How odd it was that even the abstract suggestion that Albus had especially regarded his capabilities gave him a flush of pride and validation. Even now. Especially now.

“He didn’t tell me a thing,” Filius said, as much to himself as to Minerva, still feeling knocked insensible by it. There was no anger in his words, just pure desolation. He felt himself spiralling away on the thought; drowning; being sucked under. “I have to get away from here.”

Minerva’s voice was low and steady, her Scottish lilt at its most natural. “Alright, my friend. I’ll help you pack.”

With slow movements, almost as if testing whether she would be allowed, Minerva leaned over to embrace Filius. She kissed him gently, on the cheek.


	10. Polgog

**Polgog**

On the beach in Cornwall, Filius listened to the wash-wash-wash of waves over pebbles, and the cawing of gulls overhead. It had been three months. Three months of solitude, and hoping and healing and running away.

His eyes settled on the horizon, looking at nothing in particular. The wind was picking up a little, rolling in clouds that towered in impossible animal shapes over the sea – but the weather was holding, for now.

After taking a little cottage by the coast, Filius had developed his own simple rituals over the weeks. He would wake up early and go for a walk along the cliffs, then have breakfast in a little café overlooking the water. The middle of the day might be spent practicing some moves at chess, or perhaps even trying a little painting. Mainly though, he just sat and gazed – and tried to feel himself stitching back together, one tiny fragment at a time. Sometimes it might be working; sometimes it clearly wasn’t. Hours could pass, just looking out to the ocean. The ocean, at least, was gentle with his soul.

Filius used a charm or two to keep Muggles from staring, but otherwise his wand had been relatively quiet. Just existing didn’t seem to call for much magic, after all.

Not wishing to be entirely radical about his departure, Filius had kept in touch with some friends – visiting Xeno from time to time, and being careful not to ignore Horace’s and Minerva’s concerned owls. Mostly, though, he had been alone – which had been a relief. Filius needed the time and the wide, open space to somehow ask the question that was surely at the root of this all: without Albus in his life, what _was_ his life? Without Albus – his beacon; his light; the defining, organising factor in pretty much everything he had done, thought and been for most of his adult existence – who was he, at all?

It wasn't easy. There were days when even asking seemed too much trouble, and a cliff-top could surely provide a nice, neat solution for all involved. 

Somehow, though, Filius didn't do that. He realised – almost to his annoyance – that his spirit seemed to have a tough little kernel at its centre that refused to be snuffed out. On other days, then, there seemed to be a tiny victory in just managing to persist – to have refrained from doing anything silly for twenty-four more hours.

Filius readjusted his position in the deck chair. The rockpool anemones were waving their fronds in the tide; one could fancy they were seeking and catching of their own accord, but really they were just being buffeted about by the waves. A hermit crab wandered past, paying him no notice.

“Filius.” 

He jumped – almost straight out of his seat. The voice had come from directly behind, preceded by no warning footsteps. Filius craned to see the woman – the _goblin_ woman – who was now walking around to the front of his chair.

She was wearing a suit – neatly tailored and belted in dark green – but her claw-like feet were bare as they crunched on the pebbles. “You don’t remember me.” It was a statement, not a question.

Filius' mind immediately switched into an archival whir. That face: wide eyed; young; oddly pretty. Dark hair. Quietly serious manner. “ _Polly?_ ”

Polgog smiled, showing her neatly pointed teeth. “Our kind don’t lose things from our minds, as wizards claim to do. It’s not a choice. We just… can’t. Perhaps you are more one of us than I gave you credit, Filius Horsegood Flitwick. My apologies.”

Filius simply blinked. The seashore swished and gurgled. "What are you doing here?"

“I sought you here, having learned from Headmistress Minerva McGonagall that you have left the employ of Hogwarts. It has not been easy to find you.”

"Indeed." Filius tried not to sound _too_ miffed – but being hard to find had been part of the point. "But why?" He was feeling increasingly uneasy.

Polgog nodded, with the air of someone who was pleased to be finally getting down to business. “I have been given a newly-formed commission in your Ministry. Or – dare I say it – what is now _our_ Ministry. The war has shaken all of us – perhaps far more than wizardkind realise. Goblin homes have been trampled, and giants have eaten our children. Gringotts is no longer secure.

"It would be wrong of us, however, to pretend that we are simply victims of the havoc. Goblins have played a part in allowing the rise of evil in this world, at least as much as wizards. There were many times we could have intervened – to have prevented tragedy – and yet we did not. It was parochial, and for a people that prizes itself on cleverness, remarkably unintelligent. The suffering has been great."

Filius didn't move. He was listening intently, mesmerised by Polgog's steady, unblinking gaze.

"We need now to take due responsibility for preventing an ugly future – for though your lives are short and you may hope never to have to see a tyrant again, we know that evil comes in many forms, and with eerie regularity through the centuries. 

"It would be reckless for goblinkind to continue in the old ways: holding grudges and chasing debts. Wars are no longer fought with just swords, and political shielding is as valuable as any armour. We must collaborate. Therefore, our leaders have extended yours a proposal; a new order; a new way."

"Which is?" Filius was intensely curious.

"As far as is practicable, we will co-govern, across both of our species. Wizard and goblin societies will continue to co-exist, but we will ally for the benefit of all on matters of mutual importance. We will share defence, and finally reach an accord on matters of ownership and property."

"Well, that sounds like a lofty aim..." said Filius, rather sceptically.

Polgog was undeterred. "It is.

"Thus, to prove our commitment, and as a gesture of goodwill, goblins will share some of the lore and workings of goblin magic with wizardkind. Perhaps, with time and trust, wizards will be willing to share the secrets of wand-making with us. Uniting our magic will allow our people to see that they have much in common; decent folk need not be enemies any longer."

Filius reflected on all of that; if her optimism was right, it did make a great deal of sense. Then, a particularly loud seagull broke his concentration. Filius was drawn back to the beach; his retreat and sanctuary. "But what do you want with me?"

"To lead this brave endeavour, I need a partner. Specifically, I believe that I need you."

Immediately, Filius frowned and shook his head.

"Listen." Polgog's tone was calm, but commanding. "The first wizard to learn and propagate goblin magic must be a masterful one; I suspect that you will have a natural aptitude for our workings. I have followed your intellectual endeavours; they are of the highest class, and your innate magic is remarkably strong. Furthermore, the co-chair of the Wizard-Goblin Partnership Committee must have the tact to confer with both parties; the talent to command the respect of a large team; and – most of all – the goodness to do this for all our sakes."

Filius was feeling rather overwhelmed. "Well, that's very flattering but–" 

“–Come and work with me. Filius Horsegood Flitwick: Ravenclaw. Duelling champion. Professor of Charms. Hero of wars. Lover of Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore.”

He gasped. 

Why did everyone bloody well _know_ about it? Know about the very thing that he had struggled to keep to himself all of those long, wonderful, stressful, crazy years. Why couldn’t he and Albus have just been just together, open about the joy he had felt? Why had he been kept as a shameful secret by the man he so adored?

Filius took a deep breath and tried to calm himself. He levered his body out of the deckchair and took a few steps toward the water, casting around on the ground for a smooth, flat stone. He was not accustomed to bitter thoughts; the taste of them felt strange in his gullet. 

Exhaling slowly, Filius cast the stone across the waves. It skip-skip-skipped away into the blue. With it, a little of the pain left him – and it was replaced in his breast by the faintest of glows. 

Polgog watched, patiently. Filius looked for some while at the spot where the stone had disappeared, and then he turned to her. "You know of my blood, but I must be honest with you. I really know nothing about my goblin heritage. All my life, I've..." – he suddenly felt very ashamed – "...avoided it."

"Yes," Polgog agreed – though it was a statement of fact, not a judgement. "But you are pure of heart, Filius, and have an excellent mind. It is time for you to learn."

He sucked-in air through his teeth, eyes again out to sea. “I don’t know…”

“It is what Albus Dumbledore would have wanted,” Polgog pressed.

Filius was silent again for a very long time. 

Then, almost studiedly, he shrugged. “Maybe," Filius answered. "Perhaps one day I’ll be able to ask him. 

“But for the time being, I need to do what _I_ want.” 

Polgog opened her mouth to protest, but Filius raised a hand to silence her. “–Which is to join your noble cause.”

A smile blossomed on Polly's face, reaching right up to her wide forehead and pointed ears. Her black, curly hair bobbed in the Cornish breeze.

“Lead on, First Minister," declared Filius.

“There is much work for us to do." She extended a handshake, and Filius took her long, clawed fingers in both of his palms. "I am young, I confess, but I have every hope that our partnership will lead to a better future for goblins and wizards, alike." 

Filius nodded, meeting her gaze.

Polly looked down at their nestled hands. “ _'Filius’_ ” she mused, regarding him again with those dark, unblinking eyes. “Son of both wizard and goblin. Inspiration to many. Friend to all.”

*****

Filius sat in his Ministry office – busy, but content. His quill moved swiftly over the parchment before him, atop his rather magnificent roll-top desk and blue leather blotter. All was bathed in the gentle light that seeped through the frosted internal windows; beyond, sat Filius’ rapidly-growing team.

Indeed, as soon as he had signed his contract, recruitment had been brisk; Kingsley’s Ministry were clearly taking the new commission seriously. Filius was not ashamed to note that there was a good proportion of bright young Ravenclaws among their number – not that he was biased, of course, but he _had_ learned a thing or two about alumni relations from Horace, over the years. 

Minerva had visited, and had seemed to be quietly impressed by operations to date; she had promised to mention the opportunity to her most talented seventh-years. Rather more ambitiously, Filius had seeded the idea that one day Hogwarts might provide a magical education to youngsters of all magical races, not just witches and wizards. Minerva’s eyebrows had raised at the thought, but she hadn’t said ‘no’. The conversation had instead ranged across the needs that would arise for: more, and more varied, accommodation; more teachers; and more subjects – all of which were significant obstacles. Filius, however, had been quietly pleased – for when one switches to discussions of practicality, that is surely somewhere on the path to a ‘yes’, in time.

Home for Filius was now a smart townhouse in London – close enough to the Ministry for convenience, but just leafy enough for light, air and capricious squirrels that played outside his windows in the garden square. Filius’ mother had been delighted at the move; although now pushing one-hundred, she was certainly not beyond the idea of regular visits and Sunday lunches just around the corner – which Filius bore with good grace and some modicum of enjoyment. Upon hearing about Filius’ new position, his father had beamed, and ruffled Filius’ silvering hair as if he were a boy again. “Great-Great-Uncle Horsegood would have been proud, son. Very proud of you, indeed!”

Progress to date had been pleasing – and would hopefully be maintained a rate that really _would_ have made Great-Great-Uncle Horsegood proud, Filius thought. The magic-sharing initiative had begun with great success, and ambassadorial contact with goblins of other nations was off to a promising start. On the latter point, Filius had become fluent in Gobbledegook remarkably quickly, and was enjoying just how expressive and irreverent a language it seemed to be. The goblins in Polgog’s team had taken to addressing Filius as ‘snotall’, which translated to something roughly equivalent to ‘sir’ combined with ‘mushroom’. Polly promised that it meant they liked him, really.

On the point of magic-sharing, Filius had indeed been the first test-subject, under Polgog’s careful tuition. The first time he had apparated into a goblin-locked vault, Filius had whooped in excitement and Polly and her team had cheered. The first time he had minted an unbreakable coin with a goblin charm, though, had been an utter revelation. The different magic had sent a shiver along his every hair, and something in Filius’ mind had sparked awake. It was almost as if there was a part of him that had been asleep for all these years, now awakened; alert, eager and excited. 

From there, Filius’ proficiency with goblin spells and workings had grown and grown. In combination with his good knowledge of Arithmancy, Gringotts’ complex economic magic began to make sense. Filius could see a model for an equitable operation of the bank in the future, and was busy drafting proposals for the Minister and the Gringotts’ Board.

In return, and mindful of both sides of the bargain, Filius had suggested that Polly attempt a simple goblin spell with his wand. It had backfired spectacularly, shattering so much of the glass in the office, they were still finding things to repair three weeks later. He was no expert on wand lore, but Filius suspected that goblins would need a whole different set of wand cores to wizards – things of the undergrowth and bedrock, rather than the hairs and feathers of creatures that roamed sunny plains. He had a meeting with Mr Ollivander in the diary for Monday to discuss it – a real step forward, given the Ministry's previous intransigence on the matter. Life seemed a hopeful place.

Filius came to the end of a sentence and paused his quill. He sat back in his chair and looked around at the books and papers on his walls. The floor was quiet; most people were having lunch. The small wooden box sat on his bookshelf, patiently. Filius decided it was time.

He reached and brought it down to his desk. The outside was unadorned but handsome; smooth and polished, with a simple brass catch. 

With unhurried fingers, Filius clicked open the seal and raised the lid.

Inside, nestled a great number of tiny glass vials, each containing the silvery strands of thought and memory. They were individually ornate, and labelled in tiny writing. The pearlescent contents swirled and glistened, seemingly awakened by Filius’ gaze.

He turned the box sideways, to try to read the labels of the first layer. Some of them were marked with a place and date, mirroring their travels: _Paris – April, 1972; Barbados – February, 1969; Prague – November, 1990; Beijing – May, 1985._

A further set had more densely-written labels, though; Filius removed some vials from the box to read them:  


> _A vintage virginity – all yours._
> 
> _Was it selfish of me to want to keep you safe? Did I clip your wings?_
> 
> _I asked Severus to stop you from saving me because it had to be that way; please don't hate him for it._

  
And simply: 

> Goodbye, my Darling.

  
Filius took a deep breath. The little glass bottles felt delicate under his fingers; dainty and pretty and special.

His heart was pounding, but his hands remained steady. There was an ache, of course, sitting in his chest and stomach and filtering out into every part of his body – but not quite the sickening, slashing pain of before. 

No, in a strange way, it was a _good_ ache; a mellow, burnishing kind of hurt that could almost be confused for a glow of warmth. It reminded Filius that his heart had not been cauterised so much it had forgotten his love – and for that, he was glad.

Filius replaced the vials carefully in the box – and in doing so, noticed a piece of parchment that had been folded into the lid. He opened it, and read.  


> _For Filius._
> 
> _Thank you for believing in any part of me that was honest and good, or – even – desirable. I did not deserve to be the object of your kind heart and gentle spirit, but your regard lifted and transformed my years in ways that I would have never thought possible. My soul will be always grateful, and forever better, for having been touched by yours._
> 
> _One of my many failings is that I never managed to express this to you, despite years of nearly-almost trying. I ask myself ‘why?’_
> 
> _Was it fear of my own shadows? Fear of fate snatching away what we had, if I were to expose it too much – to agree to being too happy? Was I so convinced of the fragility of all things I hold dear, I very nearly forced them to break? It was only your stoicism that rescued us from my clumsiness._
> 
> _It all sounds ridiculous now; but these thoughts are that to which we cling in our deepest selves, we poor balls of clay. Please forgive me, my dearest._
> 
> _I hope that these thoughts and memories of mine will go some way to bridge that canyon of what I should have said, and what you were always too decent to ask._
> 
> _With all my love,_
> 
> _Albus._

  
Filius sat back in his chair and folded his hands. His breath fell lightly on the tip of his quill, making the fronds sway to and fro. The Ministry’s central warming charms thrummed around him.

When he was ready, he would take the vials to a Pensieve; one by one, over weeks and months. He would watch them carefully, and his heart would be joyful.

Later – much later – he would close his eyes one night and wake elsewhere to see Albus again. They would embrace and he would weep. Strands of red and dark hair would mingle together in the sunshine. It would be glorious.

Filius dipped his quill, and reached for a clean sheet of parchment. 

For now, though, he had work to do.


End file.
